Waiting Game
by GoddessLaughs
Summary: A job gone wrong lands Connor in the hospital, leaving the brothers with nothing but thier faith, a friend and a lot of trials to face. Rated for language.
1. Bad Night

o()o

_**Author's Note:** This has been a lot of fun to write so far, and I'm pretty pleased with how its coming along. Please feel free to RR and let me know what you think._

o(1)o

Danae watched the dark haired man in the waiting room warily, her fingers flying over the computer keyboard. The Emergency Room paperwork was so familiar to her now, that she could do it without actually paying attention, her hands knew exactly what keys to push and when.

Many nights, the monotony of her job was irritating, but tonight she was glad for it. It allowed her to keep an eye on the lobby's only inhabitant.

He was like a barely contained force of nature, pacing furiously, long Jean-clad legs making short work of the small waiting room, and shooting worried glances at the closed emergency room door where the ER staff was currently working to save the person he had brought in.

To Danae, the man behind the closed door was "Trauma-Fifty-Four" two gunshot wounds and multiple injuries from an assault. The dark haired man had half-carried half-dragged the unconscious Trauma-Fifty-Four through the ER doors and it had taken four security guards to pull him away. He had sworn and yelled pushing and shoving until Danae had stepped in front of him, arms crossed over her chest.

"This isn't helping him." She had said, inclining her head toward the rapidly filling room. "The longer you cause problems, the longer it will take for us to take care of him."

It was an oft-used phrase, Danae had long since lost count of how many times she had employed it, and spoken in a low, firm voice, it always seemed to work.

This time was no different. The dark haired man had halted; shaking off the security guards' restraining hands and had fixed her with an icy glare so intense that her first instinct was to recoil. But she had held her ground and in the end, he had relented, turning on his heel and stalking into the lobby.

The closed door opened, catching Danae's attention, and a nurse stuck her head out. "Move him to surgery." She said brusquely and then vanished back into the room. Danae tried not to notice the disturbing amount of blood that was splattered across the nurse's smock and smeared on her gloves.

She failed.

Transferring the emergency room records to Surgery took less than five minutes. Once it was done, she poured two cups of coffee and ventured into the lobby. Sometimes a little kindness went a long way.

"Here." She said, keeping a safe distance and offering a cup to the dark haired man.

He paused only briefly in his pacing, assessing her briskly and then dismissing her, running a trembling hand through his hair. Danae saw a tattoo along his index finger, but it disappeared into his hair before she could read it.

"He's alive." The words were a peace offering and she tried not to smile as they stopped him cold. "The records say he's stable, they're taking him to surgery now."

He turned to face her, blue eyes stormy. "Stable?"

Danae blinked against a sudden, unsettling throb in her chest. He sounded so helpless, so alone; nobody should have to be that lost. She pushed a smile past the lump in her throat "Yes, everything's going to be fine."

As soon as the words were out, she regretted them. She didn't know that everything was going to be fine. In fact, there was a good chance that it wouldn't be, but she wanted to take that haunted look out of his eyes, if only for a moment.

He took in a great shuddering breath and even though he had ceased pacing, he was still moving, vibrating silently. She could almost feel the nervous energy thrumming through him, in desperate need of an outlet. She offered him the Styrofoam cup again and this time he accepted it and offered her the barest hint of a smile. "Thank ye."

"You're welcome."

They stood awkwardly for a moment, Danae wondering what exactly to say for someone whose entire world was currently in shambles. Somehow, the normal condolences seemed petty and fruitless when compared to the hell this man was going through.

Looking away, he took a sip of the coffee then grimaced. "Christ, this is the worst fuckin' coffee I've ever had." He muttered.

She snorted, knowing all too well that hospital coffee was unparalleled in its disgustingness and he offered her a rueful shake of his head.

"I didn't mean it like that, I mean I 'ppreciate it and all, it's just . . ."

Stopping him with a wave of her hand, Danae looked into her own cup with a skeptically raised eyebrow, "Don't worry, I understand."

When she looked up, he was chewing on his thumb, staring at the closed door. The cup of coffee was shaking so hard in his other hand she was afraid he'd spill it. "Come on." She said softly, "Let's take a walk."

"No, I can't."

"Let them take care of him, they know what they're doing." Another canned phrase, but this time, there was truth in it. The nurses and emergency doctor working tonight surpassed any of the others; there was nobody she would rather trust with her life.

"But I have ta be there for him, if something happens . . ." The torture of not knowing shone in his eyes and if there had ever been any question about it, Danae knew that there wasn't now. Trauma-Fifty-Four was this man's entire world.

"If anything happens, we'll know before the rest of the hospital." She lifted her shirt slightly and jutted out her hip, revealing to him the pager she wore. "It's my job to get the staff where they need to be when things like that happen."

He looked at the pager for a moment, chewing his bottom lip, and then gave a curt nod. "Let's go then."

The air bit through Danae's clothing as they stepped into the hospital courtyard making her shiver. It was too cold for her comfort, but the chilly weather seemed to soothe the dark-haired man. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes, and then reached into his pocket to retrieve a pack of cigarettes. Plucking out two, he lit them: a gesture that had been repeated so many times it was obviously an unconscious habit.

He took one of the cigarettes and stared at it, going still, the other still hanging from his lips. "Fuck." He whispered, and the cigarette in his hand quivered, "Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck . . ."

Danae took the smoke from between his fingers. "Come on," she said softly "let's keep walking."

They had circled the hospital twice, and were starting on their third lap, when her pager went off. They were silent as they walked, the dark-haired man staring into the distance, a cigarette always in his hand. He had stopped lighting a second one for her after catching her discretely tossing them away when she thought he wasn't watching.

The shrill beep of the pager startled them both; Danae looked down and drew in a sharp breath, her heart skipping a beat. "Oh, no." she whispered.

"What?" the dark hair man asked, but she was already moving, sprinting toward the nearest entrance, there was no time for questions, she had to get everyone to surgery _now._ "What the fuck is it?" he yelled after her.

Her answer floated back on the icy wind. "He's coding!"

o()o

Murphy stayed outside, as still and cold as the concrete bench he was sitting on. He had been there since the girl had bolted back into the hospital, leaving him with nothing but two of the most terrorizing words he had ever heard. _He's coding._

His entire body trembled, the sickening anxiety he felt was wreaking havoc through his muscles. He accepted the excess of energy without question, channeling it into prayer with a single-minded determination only a few knew that he possessed. He had been there for over three hours, clutching his rosary so tightly it cut into his palms, his breath making misty plumes as he moved his lips in prayer. Sometimes he lit a cigarette and prayed between puffs, sending his words spiraling into the sky on white smoke. He alternated between praying aloud and silently, sometimes reciting prayers that he had learned long ago and sometimes simply talking to God, pleading with Him to let his brother survive the night.

A warm hand over his cold ones made him look up to see a figure standing before him. It was the same girl who had offered him the vile coffee and had wisely gotten him out of the building before he had snapped and hit something. Her dark eyes were apologetic and a kind smile curved her lips, a kind, and _sympathetic_ smile.

The bottom plummeted out of Murphy's stomach and his world. _Oh, no, Jesus fuckin' Christ Connor, no. I'm so sorry. This can't be fuckin' happening. I'm sorry, I'm so fuckin' sorry, Connor. _

"Is he . . ." the word stuck in Murphy's throat, captured there by grief and rising bile. He didn't want to know, he didn't want to hear her answer. If they didn't speak the words aloud then maybe it wouldnt be true. Somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered why he didn't already know, they were twins, weren't they? Shouldn't he have already known?

"He's okay."

Her words swept over him, meaningless at first, drowned in a sea of anguish and loss, then slowly they sank in. "What?" he breathed, terrified that he had misheard, afraid to hope.

"His heart stopped during surgery, that's what the code was, but the surgeon got it going again, he's been admitted to intensive care and they think that with enough time he'll recover."

Tears gathered in Murphy's eyes and he turned away before she could see them fall. His heart thudded once, painfully, in his chest as the energy he had been channeling into prayer flooded back into his body making him shake with the overwhelming force of it. He was torn between sobbing with relief and the almost overpowering need to laugh.

Desperate to release some of the mounting tension, he ran shaking hands through his hair, then grasped at the rosary around his neck with one hand, patting the pockets of his jacket for a cigarette with the other.

She stopped his frenetic movements with a gentle touch on his elbow. "He's not supposed to have visitors for awhile, but if we hurry, I can sneak you in."

The hospital corridors were eerily silent and empty, nothing like the brightly lit chaos that Murphy had seen so often on television. As they walked down the rows of open doors, he shuddered. Death seemed to be lurking in every room they passed, sinister and patient in the shadows. He chanced a look at the girl walking by his side. She seemed calm and relaxed in comparison, as if finding peace in this disquieting place.

As they rounded a corner into the intensive care unit, four rooms with windows that looked both to the outside and into the hallway greeted them. The girl inclined her head slightly in acknowledgment to a nurse sitting behind the counter and the nurse suddenly announced that she was taking her break, disappearing out the door without a second glance.

Murphy knew which room was Connor's without being told. Walking through the door, he was staggered at the multitude of tubes and wires coming out of his brother. His twin seemed so small, so very vulnerable amongst the plethora of medical equipment that surrounded him. "Oh my God," Murphy choked out, "Fuck." _I'm so sorry. _

And suddenly he was very, very, angry. Fury, black and writhing filled him and he unleashed it on the girl. "What the fuck is all this?" he yelled, rounding on her and had the satisfaction of watching her eyes widen, "Yer fuckin' killing him. All this shit coming out of him, how the fuck can he breath? Ye're supposed to be helping him and ye're going to fuckin' kill him!"

He started toward his twin, ready to rip the tubes and wires out of his beloved brother, to free him from the equipment, to take him home where he belonged.

"Stop."

It was the same voice she had used in the emergency room, low and firm, the one that reminded him of his Ma and the tone she'd use when her twin boys' scrapping would turn into an earnest fight.

"These are helping him." She gestured toward the tube coming out Connor's mouth "That helps him breath, he can't on his own right now. The I.V. is giving him pain medicine and fluids. The thing on his finger is monitoring his heartbeat. All these things are keeping him safe, helping to keep him alive.  
Now go to him and _do not_, "she emphasized the words "make me regret doing this."

Murphy's anger ebbed as quickly as it had flared. He moved to Connor's bedside and took his brothers inert hand in his own, taking solace in its warmth and the pulse beating under his thumb.

Connor was alive and nothing else mattered.

He looked up to see the girl lingering outside the room, leaning against the desk in the hallway, reading a chart. He wanted to apologize to her, she'd been kind to him and he'd been a complete can of piss in return, but the words wouldn't seem to come out.

"That his?" he asked instead.

She nodded, not looking up.

"What's it say?"

"It's not great news, but it could have been much worse. The first bullet missed all his vital organs. He has some internal bleeding, a little fluid in his lungs, and a lot of damage that will just take time to heal. The second nicked the bone in his thigh, looks like there was some damage there already. They got both bullets out intact. His heart stopped for a minute and a half during the first surgery, they got it started again with the paddles. The rest of the surgery went without event."

"That the abridged version is it?"

She nodded then looked up and addressed the prone figure in the hospital bed, "You're a lucky man, Trauma-Fifty-Four."

"What the fuck's that supposed ta mean, Trauma-Fifty-Four?"

"That's what we call him since we don't know his name."

"His name is Connor."

"Connor." She said softly, testing the word.

"He's my brother." Murphy swallowed as a thought struck him "Fuck, We're in some serious shit now, the emergency rooms probably already called the police. Fuck."

She raised an eyebrow. "I wouldn't worry about that, the police won't be coming anytime soon."

He frowned at her "And why the fuck not, it's the law innit? What makes you so sure they won't be here? "

"Because," she smiled wryly and turned away, "Contacting the police in the event of a crime is my job too."

"Wait!" he called after her.

She stopped but didn't turn around, "I have work to do."

"Tell me yer name."

"It's Danae."

"I'm Murphy."

Murphy couldn't see her face, but he could tell she was smiling. "I have work to do, Murphy, but it was nice meeting you."


	2. Chapter 2

o(2)o

Murphy awoke to the sun streaming in the hospital window, a painful spasm in his back and the sound of his brother's breathing. He had fallen asleep, holding Connor's hand.

Again.

It had been four days since the night he had almost lost his brother and Connor was slowly, slowly beginning to heal. They had taken him off the ventilator yesterday and Murphy had wept, unabashedly, certain that he had never been prouder of his twin as Connor had taken those first struggling breaths on his own. He had spent the rest of day holding his brother's hand, speaking words of encouragement in every language they knew.

Now, wincing and stretching Murphy stood, "'Morning Assface." He said to the inert form in the bed. "You should open yer eyes; it's a beautiful day out."

He moved around the room, stretching the stiff muscles of his back, and tidying up. Murphy kept the hospital room impeccably neat, not out of any desire for cleanliness, but because it was something to do. It provided a much needed channel for the stress that often threatened to overtake him, swelling until he was sure that he would simply explode from the force of it.

Glancing at Connor's bedside table, he saw a cup of coffee, a newspaper, and a doughnut wrapped in wax paper, all indications that Danae had been by.

Murphy had only seen her a handful to times since the night they had met, but he knew she stopped by often, always leaving some sign that she had paid a visit; usually a cup of coffee, or a magazine. But there had been a couple of times when he had fallen asleep at his brother's side and had woken up that morning wrapped in a blanket.

On the occasions he was awake to greet her, she would scrounge up a deck of cards and they would play various games until either she was called back to work, or he dozed off, usually the latter.

Smiling, Murphy took the Styrofoam cup, bracing himself for the bitter burn the liquid imparted, and took a drink. He was surprised to find that, while still unbelievably vile, it was mostly hot.

He must have just missed her then.

Taking another swallow of the coffee, he reached out and squeezed his brother's hand, feeling the reassuring presence of Connor's pulse under his thumb.

"I'm going out for a smoke, don't do anything too reckless before I . . ." He stopped as His brother's hand tightened around his own. Connor's eyelids fluttered and Murphy's heart missed a beat. For a moment he was shocked into stillness, completely gobsmacked, then his brain got an adrenaline charged kick-start.

"Open your eyes, Connor." He said, "Listen ta me, now, and open yer eyes. Listen ta Murphy, Connor, and open yer fuckin' eyes. Open. Yer. Eyes. Connor. "

Connor's eyes slit then opened, revealing blue orbs that were unfocused and unaware. He looked at Murphy for a moment, then heaved a breath, eyes again slipping closed, falling back into the abyss of sleep reserved only for the grievously injured and ill.

"Stay with me." Murphy reached out to his brother, cupping Connor's cheek in his hand. "Connor, stay with me, now. Open yer eyes and look at me."

After several moments, Murphy realized that his brother couldn't be roused. Swiping impatiently at the tears that were forming, he took Connor's pale hand in between both of his own and began to pray.

He was still praying when Danae came to visit that night.

"Murphy?" she lingered just outside the doorway, waiting to be invited in, as she always did when he was awake.

He looked up briefly, nodding for her to enter and then turning his attention back to his brother.

"What happened?"

"Connor woke up this morning. It wasn't . . ." he stopped swallowing "It was only for a minute, but he fuckin' opened his eyes and looked at me."

"You've been here since?"

He nodded.

"Have you eaten?"

"No, I didn't even think about it. Christ, I haven't even taken a piss. What time is it?"

"A little after midnight,"

"No wonder my back teeth are floatin'." He stood up slowly, groaning as his body protested the movement after such a long stretch of stillness. His knees and back were stiff and sore, he felt old. "Ow, fuck."

"Are you okay?"

"Aye, just a little stiff."

"Why don't you take a walk and get something to eat? You'll feel better for it."

"No . . ." Murphy hesitated, looking down at his twin. Fuck, he didn't want to leave Connor alone, but a walk in the cool night air sounded so _good,_ and his fingers were itching for a cigarette.

"I'll stay with him until you get back." She cocked her head and smiled "Go on, you'll be glad you did."

Slowly, he relinquished his brother's hand, hesitant to give up the feel of Connor's pulse underneath his thumb. Danae took his place at the bedside. Her hand, smaller and darker than his, broke the twins' contact, but instead of holding Connor's hand, she was clasping his.

"I'll take good care of him, I promise." She said, giving his fingers a gentle squeeze, and Murphy noticed how warm her hands were.

"I'll be back in an hour."

She nodded, letting go of his hand and turning her attention to his brother.

o()o

Murphy burst through the double doors of the hospital, shivering as the first gust of cold wind hit him. Reaching into his pocket and pulling out a cigarette, he turned his back to the wind to light it. Inhaling, he made a sound of satisfaction deep in his throat. He had to be smoking the best fucking cigarette ever created.

Although, he supposed, the fact that he hadn't had one in 16 hours had something to do with that.

It was a clear night, white stars sparkling coldly against the darkened sky, and the air was chilly. It surrounded him and soothed him as he started walking.

Danae had been right; it felt good to be out of the stuffy hospital room and away from the endless array of machines, nurses, and doctors. Now, the only question was where did he want to go? Buttoning his coat, Murphy took another deep drag off his cigarette and looked to his right. It seemed as good a direction to go as any other.

It was strange to be out without Connor. His left side felt exposed and his stride seemed off without his brother's footsteps to judge by. He had no one to talk to, no one to reach out and pat or push affectionately, and most importantly, no one to share the happenings of day with. It was like a part of himself was missing, and in a way, Murphy supposed it was.

He came upon a pub, and while a pint sounded pretty fuckin' good, it didn't seem right to drink without his brother. _Once you wake up, Connor, _he promised silently, passing the building, _I am going to take you out, and get you so fuckin' buckled that you won't be able to see straight. _

He wandered past a church, reminding him that tomorrow was Sunday, and he wondered if Danae would watch over Connor so he could slip away for a couple of hours and attend mass. He had done more praying these last few days than he had in his entire life, but Murphy felt that somehow being in church would be better, that lighting a votive for Connor would get his words a little closer to God's ears.

Finally, he stopped in front of an all-night diner. It was a little hole in the wall place, with hand lettered signs declaring the day's specials and even the sign seemed vaguely greasy. The smell of cooking food permeated the air and Murphy's stomach growled, protesting the day's fast. "Food it is then." He said to nobody in particular and pushed the door open.

When the waitress sat the plate in down front of him, Murphy grinned. A hamburger with everything, so greasy that the bun was soggy, french-fries slathered in ketchup and a Pepsi, this was definitely better than hospital food or some random sandwich from a vending machine.

Chalk up another point for Danae.

Picking up the pepper and shaking it vigorously over his fries, he smiled, thinking about his twin. Connor was a french-fry purist, liking just a little salt and nothing else on his chips. Murphy, on the other hand, loved anything and everything on his fries, ketchup, mustard, honey, his chocolate milkshake, anything. It was like that with any meal, Connor liked his food simple and basic, while Murphy crammed together as many flavors as he could possibly manage.

He could almost hear his brother's amiable complaints as he ate. _Christ, Murph, I can't believe yer fuckin' eating that! What a disgustin' waste of good fries. _

But Connor wasn't there; he was in lying in a hospital bed, comatose, maybe forever. The thought struck like lightning, stealing Murphy's good mood and his appetite. Suddenly he was achingly lonely for his twin, desperate to feel Connor's pulse beneath his thumb, to reassure himself that his brother was still alive and getting well. He hastily left his half-eaten meal at the table, paid the waitress and left, walking briskly back to the hospital.

o()o

Although he would never admit it, it took Murphy a moment to recognize Danae when she walked into Connor's room Sunday morning.

And although he would never admit it, he thought she was much prettier this way. Her normal work outfit of slacks and a sweater had been replaced with curve-hugging jeans and a well-worn hooded sweatshirt. Her glasses were missing and her hair, normally pulled back and secured with a pencil, was down, framing her face.

She raised an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth quirking, and Murphy realized that he was staring. Quickly he looked away, clearing his throat.

"Thank ye for doing this," he said, "especially since its yer day off and all."

Producing a doughnut from the sack she was holding, Danae took a bite and offered him the bag, "No problem."

"Christ, woman," he said opening the paper sack and seeing two more doughnuts inside "if ye keep this up I'm going ta be too fat ta kneel at the altar."

"I doubt that." She said, pulling a chair to Connor's bedside and taking his hand, "You know, you don't clean up half bad."

Slipping his rosary around his neck and dropping the crucifix into his shirt, Murphy grinned at her, "I was just thinkin' the same thing about ye."

"You just can't go wrong with comfortable weekend-wear."

He gave her an openly appraising look, grinning when she blushed. "I guess not."

Danae chuckled softly, her cheeks still red, "You should get going; you're going to be late."

"Aye." Murphy smoothed his shirt, brushed a chaste kiss against his brother's forehead, and on a sudden impulse, planted one on Danae's cheek before walking out.

He didn't see the astonished look on Danae's face or the way she raised a hand to the cheek he had kissed, smiling into her palm.

o()o

When Murphy sat with Connor, he talked. He told stories and nattered about childhood memories. He prayed and whispered words of encouragement in an array of languages.

When Danae watched over Connor, she hummed.

Murphy had noticed it first upon returning from Mass and had caught her a few times since, lingering outside the door to his brother's room. She never sang, never spoke to Connor except to tell him hello or goodbye, but she hummed a remarkable variety of songs from classical to heavy metal, gently tapping Connor's hand to the beat as she did.

He liked listening to her, and was mildly disappointed that she would stop whenever he walked into the room. Today was no different.

"Ye don't have ta quit on my account, ye know."

Danae looked at him, guilty at being caught. "Sorry."

"Don't be. I'm sure he 'ppreciates it. It's probably a nice change from listenin' ta me all the time."

"Yeah, right." She turned her eyes towards Connor's limp hand and tilted her head. "_Veritas_." She said softly.

Murphy looked at her, surprised at her accent. She pronounced the word _whair-ee-tahs,_ like it was in old Latin. Not many people did that. "Aye." He said.

"What does it mean?"

"It means truth."

She nodded and turned to him "And yours?"

He held his hand up for her to see. "_Aequitas_. It means justice."

"Good to know." Danae murmured, staring down at her hands. Her expression was distant and a little sad, an unexpected switch from her normal good humor.

Murphy frowned at the top of her head, unnerved by her sudden change in mood. "What about you," he asked, "any tattoos?"

She blinked, shaking herself from whatever long thoughts she had been thinking, and Murphy was pleased to see her wry smile return.

"None that I can show in public.

o()o


	3. Chapter 3

o(3)o

Connor awoke in the middle of his ninth night in Intensive Care. He was sore, weak, and confused, unsure of where he was or how long he had been unconscious. Groggily, he struggled to piece together his disjointed memories, trying to recollect what had happened.

He remembered the drug deal, their mission that night. It had been wrong from the start with too many thugs and not enough time to take them out before they gained the advantage. Finding themselves surrounded, the twins had stayed back to back as long as they could, protecting each other and working together as a single unit, as they always did.

But a shot to the leg had felled Connor, forcing Murphy to be twice as fast, and twice as accurate. Murph had been too preoccupied protecting his fallen brother and trying to finish the mission, he never noticed the gunman hiding in the shadows, waiting for the perfect shot.

Connor remembered seeing a glint of light along the barrel of a gun aimed for Murphy's back, just a glimmer in the darkness. And suddenly, regardless of the burning pain in his leg, without being aware of a conscious decision to move, he had found himself in the bullet's path.

Ripping, searing agony had flared through his midsection, doubling him over and buckling his knees. As he had collapsed onto the concrete, Connor had dimly heard his brother's savage scream over the roaring of blood in his ears. Murphy was screaming his name over and over, trying to get to him, but there were too many men shooting at them to allow him the opportunity.

Standing over him, the shooter had sneered at Connor as he lay bleeding out onto the ground. "I guess even Saints fall from grace sometimes."

The gun had been excruciatingly heavy, but he had still managed to lift it and pull the trigger, delivering the thug to his maker with a bullet between the eyes. Connor's last thought before his world had dissolved into darkness had been a short prayer for Murphy to get out of the mayhem alive.

Now, he looked around and saw Murphy slumped over the metal guardrails of the bed, sleeping soundly, his rosary clasped in his hands.

"Murph," The first attempt came out nothing more than a raspy rush of air. Connor swallowed and tried again. "Murph,"

This time his brother's head snapped up "Connor? Yer awake!" and suddenly Murphy's hands were everywhere, gently patting Connor's arms and shoulders, ruffling his hair. "How do ye feel?"

"Like I've been fuckin' shot, how do ye think?" He reached out, halting Murphy's hands and giving his arm a reassuring squeeze. "Where are we?"

"Yer in the hospital," Despite the jubilant grin, his brother's eyes were wet. He ran a hand across his face, then through his hair; a typical Murphy fidget. "Fuck, Connor, I didn't know if ye were ever gonna wake up."

"The hospital?" Through the bleariness, Connor felt a flicker of alarm, "Murph, are ye crazy? They have to call the police for shit like this. How long have I been here? What were ye thinking taking me here?"

"Ye've been in Intensive Care for over a week now. I had to take ye, there was no other choice. You were hurt so badly that doin' anything else would have killed ye. Besides," Murphy chuckled, "The police aren't coming. They don't even know we were here."

"And why the fuck not?" At his brother's quiet laughter, Connor frowned. "Murph what did ye _do_?"

"I didn't do anything, I swear. Danae said she wouldn't call them. She . . ." he stopped, eyes widening. "I have ta tell Danae."

"Who?"

"Danae. She's . . . I don't know . . .She works here, she's helped me, _us_, out a lot."

Connor could feel his twin trembling and knew, without a doubt, that Murphy had gone through hell. Whatever had come to pass since the warehouse, Murphy had been left to cope with it alone; something his ever-sociable brother had never been very good at. Connor had a feeling that whoever Danae was, she'd taken care of his brother, and he was grateful for that.

He reached up and patted Murphy's cheek affectionately. "Then I'd guess ye'd better go and tell her then, hadn't ye?"

Murphy gave his twin's hand another light squeeze then bolted out of the room. Connor chuckled, wincing, as he heard a nurse's yell, followed by a crash and a string of curses that only his brother could manage.

o()o

He had just given into the pain medication and started to doze when Murphy skidded into the room, dragging Danae behind him.

Stopping at the sight of his sleeping brother, Murphy drew in a sharp breath. "Connor?" the word came out quietly, almost fearfully.

Connor opened his eyes smiled wearily. "Aye?"

"Are ye all right?"

"Aye, a nurse came in and stuck something in my IV a bit ago, knocked me right on my arse."

Murphy was at his brother's bedside in an instant and Connor patted his arm fondly. "Take a breath now, Murph, everything's fine. _I'm _fine."

"I just . . ."

Connor gave his arm another squeeze. "I know." He smiled, fighting the drug-induced drowsiness. "Now, don't ye have a girl ta introduce me to?"

Murphy grinned and extended a hand toward the door, "Danae, come meet my brother."

Connor followed his twin's gaze and saw dark-haired girl lingering in the doorway, hands behind her back. Eyes sparkling, she smiled warmly at Murphy's invitation, but didn't move. "Welcome back." She said to Connor.

Murphy raised an eyebrow at her, "I suppose since he's awake it has to be the both o' us now?"

"It's common courtesy." The girl confirmed and Murphy rolled his eyes heavenward.

"Invite her in, Connor." He said in mock exasperation, "She won't move otherwise, says its etiquette or some shite like that."

Grinning, Connor extended his hand alongside Murphy's and heard his brother's laugh. "Come on in, then."

She pushed off the doorframe and walked into the room, a wide smile lighting her face. "It's a pleasure to meet you, finally." She said, clasping his hand between both of hers. "You know, the emergency room will be talking about the day you woke up for a long time."

"And why is that?"

She shot Murphy a meaningful look, but the laughter showed in her eyes. "Because it was business as usual in the ER and all of a sudden this _madman_ comes tearing down the halls. He's yelling at the top of his lungs and tripping over everything in sight, I don't think the ICU nurse will ever be the same. "

Connor laughed and Murphy took a playful, careful, swat at him. "I was excited, all right?"

"Your brother," Danae continued, grinning "practically hurdles the registration desk, picks me up in the middle of discharging a patient and swings me around in circles; I almost killed someone with my clipboard! He's lucky I . . ." a shrill beeping cut her off. She looked down at the offending pager and groaned, "I have to get back to work. They probably think I've been kidnapped or something, but I'll be by later if I can."

Murphy nodded "I'll wait up for ye."

Danae snorted and shot him a wry smile as she walked out the door. "We'll see about that. Glad to have you back, Connor."

Connor watched her leave, still smiling as he sank back into his pillows.

"Are ye all right, Connor? Yer lookin' a bit pale," The worry reflecting in Murphy's eyes was palpable and Connor felt a painful tug at his heart noticing the sharper angles of his twin's face and the circles under his eyes.

"I'm just tired. Whatever that nurse gave me is doing the trick."

"It's probably Nubain or maybe Morphine for pain." Murphy said absently, and Connor looked at him sharply.

"How the fuck do ye know that?"

Murphy gave him a small smile, "Danae snuck me yer chart to read. 'Said that no matter what was in it, it was better than not knowing."

"Smart girl."

Murphy nodded, "She is. Yer startin' ta look pretty shook, ye should get some rest,."

"Aye, I'm halfway there now."

"Connor?" His brother's voice was small and quiet. It reminded Connor of when they were kids and Murphy would have nightmares. A frightened, shaking Murphy would crawl over to his brother's bed ready to ask if he could sleep with Connor tonight. But Connor would already be awake and scooted to the far side of the mattress, leaving plenty of room for his twin.

"What, Murph?"

"Promise me somethin'?"

Connor smiled "Anything."

"Promise me ye'll wake up in the mornin'."

Reaching up, Connor patted his twin on the cheek, "I promise."

o()o

_He was back in the warehouse, watching Murphy fire his weapon with dazzling speed, protecting him and fighting for his own life. His brother was like an uncontrolled force of nature, eyes blazing, howling his battle cry as he slew one gangster after another. _

_Connor saw glint of light along metal, hidden in the shadows, aiming for his twin, but this time he couldn't move. He watched, horrified and helpless as Murphy was gunned down, bullets ripping through him, gore spattering the walls and floor. _

_Sobbing, Connor reached out to his fallen brother, dragging himself to where Murphy lay sprawled in a spreading pool of crimson. _

_Turning his head toward Connor and gagging on his own blood, Murphy choked as he tried to speak, more crimson trickling out of his mouth. "_Dans la mort, toutes les choses commencent._" He gasped out. In death, all things begin. _

_Then he made a sound in his throat like dice hitting concrete and the light faded from his eyes, leaving Connor alone, cradling Murphy in his arms. _

_He gazed into his twin's sightless eyes for a moment, grief so deep and wide that there was no outlet for it, filled him. There was nothing that could ever assuage this pain so it wasn't worth even trying. Tears running down his cheeks, wetting his brothers cooling skin Connor gently closed the blue eyes that were so like his own, murmuring the prayer they had both been taught in the cradle. "_In nomine Patris,"

_Murphy's gun was next to him and with trembling hands he picked it up, staring at the weapon as the answer became so very clear. He cocked the weapon, still staring down the barrel. He knew just where to aim and he knew that his twin would be waiting for him. "_et Filii . . ." _without a second thought he pulled the trigger_.

_". . . Spiritus_ Sancti." _He was safe and warm, floating in his mother's womb, some long forgotten lullaby, echoing in his ears. Murphy was there, resting, curled against him and Connor could feel his twin's heartbeat, as familiar as his own, against the palm of his hand. He knew Murphy was perfectly happy, perfectly at peace, and his contentment infused Connor with warmth, this was where he belonged, where he had always belonged, with his brother. . ._

Connor opened his eyes, the dream slowly fading. Looking, he saw Danae sitting next to him, holding his hand between both of her own. She was humming softly as she looked out the window, it was the same song he had heard in his dream, and tapping the beat of the tune lightly onto his palm with her fingertips.

He shifted and she jumped, letting go of his hand as she turned her attention back to him. "Good Morning." She said smiling.

"Mornin'," he glanced around, but there was only Danae in the room. "Where's Murph?"

"Church . . .or Mass, I guess. He said it was important that he went but that he didn't want you to wake up alone." She shrugged "That's why I'm here."

Connor nodded, his brother had always hated missing church. Often times it was Murphy who had to drag a bleary-eyed, hungover, and often narky, Connor out of bed so they didn't miss Mass. It made sense that he would be there now. It was also very convenient; something had been on his mind since he had met this girl a few nights ago. "Danae, I have somethin' I want ta ask ye."

She raised her eyebrows "Oh?"

"Why are ye doing this?"

"Murphy asked me too, I had the day off so. . ."

"Not just sitting with me. Why do all this for us? Why risk your job ta look out for someone ye don't even know?"

She smiled slightly and looked away, when she met his gaze again her eyes were serious and calm. "I'm a firm believer in that everybody needs a helping hand sometimes. Now, I don't know what circumstances brought you both here, or why, but when I saw your brother that first night, I knew you both needed that hand. My gut said it was the right thing to, so I did."

Connor could only stare; this was not what he had been expecting at all.

"And do ye offer a helping hand often?"

"Not to such an extreme. I don't know, there was just something about Murphy that night, the pain in his eyes, like everything he'd ever known and loved was crumbling aroud him, I couldn't turn away. It wouldn't have been right."

She laughed a little, a wry smile curving her lips. "Besides, someday, when I need it the most, you might just return the favor."

o()o


	4. Chapter 4

o(4)o

It took exactly four hours from the moment Connor was transferred out of Intensive Care, and into a normal room, for the MacManus brothers to charm every nurse on the floor.

With their devilish grins and lilting accents, Danae supposed it was easy enough to do. Carefully balancing two cups of coffee, a box of doughnuts and a dime-store chess set, she nudged the door open with her toe. She was surprised to find Connor awake and the cot that was set up for Murphy empty.

"'Mornin'." Connor said cheerfully "Come on in."

"You're up early," said Danae, handing him a cup of coffee and setting the doughnuts down.

"Aye." Connor took a drink from the cup and made a face "Christ, woman, you make some vile coffee."

"I didn't make it this time, I swear," She laughed, holding her hands up. "Hey, by the way, I have something for you." She handed him the plastic bag with 'Patient Effects' emblazoned on the front "I don't know how it ended up back in the MedRoom, but I'm pretty sure it's yours."

Grinning, Connor took the bag and opened it. Looking inside his smile quickly faded "It's mine."

"Are you okay?"

He nodded grimly, reaching inside the bag to produce a wallet and a rosary, identical to the one she had seen Murphy wear. Then he quickly closed the bag "Now take the rest o' this and throw it away. Get rid of it before Murph . . ."

"Before I what?" Murphy walked out of the bathroom, shaking the water from his hair, dressed in his usual torn jeans and, Danae tried not to notice, no shirt. He grinned at them both, "Is it yourself?"

"What?" She frowned, catching a glimpse of several scars as Murphy pulled a t-shirt over his head.

"He means good mornin'." Connor held up the rosary "Look what Danae found."

Murphy nodded approvingly "Very nice. Now, before I what?"

Connor tossed the sack to Danae, giving her a meaningful look, "Nothing, Murph. Never mind."

Murphy shrugged, dismissing the subject "How was yer night, Danae?" he said opening the box of doughnuts.

"Busy. I was running all night long, full moons are the worst, let me tell you."

"We missed ye." Said Connor.

Danae laughed, "I came by, but you both were fast asleep. I guess that explains why you're up so early today."

Murphy reached over and smacked Connor's hand away from the doughnut box, taking the pastry his brother was reaching for, grinning. "Nah, we're up early because Connor here has to play pincushion for the day."

"Why?"

"The good doctor wants to make sure I'm still on the mend." Connor said shoving at Murphy's shoulder "Give me that, ye fuck!"

"Ow." Laughing Murphy surrendered the doughnut, selecting another from the box. "So Connor gets to spend the day gettin' x-rayed and his blood drawn."

Danae grimaced. "Sounds like fun."

"At least the x-ray tech is cute." Connor said. "Ye think she'd give me her number?"

Murphy chuckled, "Ye'd probably have better luck with that git from the lab. I saw the way he was lookin' at ye yesterday mornin'."

Danae choked on a laugh and both brothers turned to look at her, eyebrows raised. "I know exactly who you're talking about!" she gasped through her laughter, "He was talking about you the other day, I didn't realize who he meant."

"Great." Connor rolled his eyes and took another drink of his coffee, grimacing. Danae shot him an amused look and he smiled at her "It gets better once you get used ta it, really."

"Don't let him lie to ye, luv, Yer coffee never gets better, trust me." Said Murphy.

Connor took a playful swat at his brother and in seconds, they were a tangle of limbs, laughing and calling each other names. Danae saw that for all his bravado, Murphy was being very careful not to hurt Connor's still-healing wounds. The sound of their laughter made her smile. It was good to see her guys, she had thought of them as her own for a while now, having a good time.

A knock on the door interrupted the scuffle and Danae stifled a giggle when the lab tech in question entered. "I think that's my cue to go."

"Danae!" Connor's voice was low, but it carried across the room. She turned and realized that she had left the bag with his belongings sitting on a chair. Quickly she picked it up, bid both Murphy and Connor goodbye and left.

Once in the hallway, she looked at the bag, feeling a guilty twinge of curiosity. Why didn't he want his things? Slowly she pulled the plastic sag open and the scent of blood assaulted her nose almost immediately. Inside were the clothes that Connor had been wearing the night Murphy brought him into the ER. They were covered in gore, torn and dirty. His black shirt had been cut off with scissors, but Danae could still see the bullet hole and the heavy ring of blood surrounding it.

She shuddered. God, no wonder he wanted this stuff gone.

With slightly trembling hands, she tossed it into the nearest trashcan and made her way out of the hospital.

o()o

Murphy was waiting for her that night when she got to work. He was hidden in the shadows by the employee entrance; the glowing orange of his cigarette was the only indicator of where he stood in the darkness.

"Murph?"

"He has ta go back ta surgery."

The pain in his voice made Danae's breath catch in her throat. "What? When?"

"Tomorrow morning. They found a piece o' bullet, or something, that they didn't see the first time. The doctor's afraid it'll move around and tear him up inside."

"Has it damaged anything yet?"

Murphy shook his head and lit another cigarette "They don't think so, fuck, but they don't know for sure." In the darkness, the orange glow wavered, and Danae knew that he was shaking.

"I'm so sorry, Murphy."

"I don't fuckin' get it," He said, voice rising, " When will it be enough? Hasn't he fuckin' been through enough? Will it ever fuckin' be enough?" All at once, he exploded into motion, slamming his fist into the unforgiving brick of the building. "_Fuck!_"

Danae grabbed his arm as he reared back for another blow. "Stop it!" she cried, "This doesn't help."

He rounded on her, shoving her roughly against the wall, his features drawn and taut. Her back connected jarringly against the stones, and she winced with the impact. "Tell me what will help." He shouted into her face. "You have all the fuckin' answers, tell me!"

Warmth gathered in Danae's eyes and spilled over. She stayed silent, afraid of his outburst, and afraid of provoking him further.

After an endless moment, the anger in his gaze shattered, leaving behind only grief and fear. He let go of her and stepped away. "Jesus Christ, Danae, I. . .I. . .fuck."

Drawing in a deep, shaking breath, she tried to compose herself. Her heart was thundering in her chest and there wasn't quite enough air. Deep breaths, she reminded herself, deep slow breaths. "I have to get to work." it was the only thing she could think of to say.

"Danae please. . ." Murphy began, but she held up a hand, cutting him off.

"No, Murphy," the words came easily this time and she was surprised at how steady her voice was. "I can't deal with this right now. I'll check on you both later."

o()o

All of her paperwork was long done, but despite her best efforts, Danae couldn't work up the nerve to go to the floor. All she could see was Murphy's face, pinched and white with fury. How could she face him after that?

A warm hand covered hers and she looked up into imploring blue eyes.

"My brother is an idiot." Connor said, leaning on his crutches and smiling at her.

Danae found herself wanting to return his smile, "I can't say I disagree right now." Remembering Murphy's words, she sobered. "Oh, Connor, I'm so sorry, I heard about the surgery."

"Not my idea of a good time, but better than a bit o' metal endin' up in my heart someday." He shrugged nonchalantly, "Just another scar ta add ta the collection."

"You really aren't worried?"

"A bit, but the way I figure, the worst is behind me now." he gave her hand a small pat, "Listen, Danae, Murph is practically beside hisself over what happened, he didn't mean to hurt ye."

Shaking her head, Danae sighed as the tension slowly left her body. "He just scared me more than anything. How's his hand?"

Connor laughed, pressing his palm into his side as he did, "In better shape than his arse after the reaming I gave him for treatin' ye like he did."

Laughter welled up inside of Danae, and she gave into it, enjoying the way it felt.

Connor's grin widened, "What d'ye say, take pity on my fool of a brother?"

"Let's go."

Connor pushed the door open and nodded for her to come in. Murphy was sitting on the far side of the room, looking out the window chewing on his thumb.

"Murph,"

As he turned in his seat, Danae could see the worry in Murphy's eyes. _Why, he's terrified,_ she thought as he stood and walked to where she was standing. For a moment, they stared at each other; both unsure what to say, then Danae sighed heavily and shoved at his shoulder. They said honesty was the best policy.

"You're a jerk."

He sucked in his cheeks "Aye."

"Do it again and I'll beat you bloody with my clipboard."

"Agreed." Murphy smiled.

Danae grinned, feeling as if a huge weight had been lifted off of her chest. "There," she said, "Now that that's over and done with, what are we playing tonight?"

o()o

Morning came entirely too early for the three of them. They had stayed awake all night, playing cards and talking, determined to have a good time together. But as the sun rose, the mood had sobered.

Danae had slipped away at the end of her shift to change her clothes and 'freshen up', whatever that meant. Connor was in the shower, and Murphy was left alone with his thoughts, wondering if someone could actually suffocate in silence.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so nervous. Through all the jobs that they had accomplished and through all the dangers that they had faced, nothing seemed so significant as what Connor would undergo in a few short hours. The doctor had already been by to talk with them, but Murphy couldn't remember a single thing the man had said.

The day was dawning rainy and gray and Murphy could feel the tension building up in him like the thunderheads building in the sky; creating snakes in the pit of his stomach and an ache at the base of his skull. Fuck, it was not going to be a good day.

Connor emerged from the bathroom, half-dressed, toothbrush in his mouth, leaning on his crutches. He looked at Murphy with a raised eyebrow, tilting his head. The meaning was clear: _Are you okay? _

Murphy shrugged then nodded, avoiding his twin's eyes. _Fine, I guess. _

Hobbling over, Connor squeezed his brother's shoulder gently. _I'm here. _

Murphy reached up and took his brother's hand. There was so much he wanted to say; so much he wanted his twin to know in case something went wrong . . .He shivered, trying to dispel the thought. Nothing was going to go wrong. They had come too far for anything to go wrong.

Connor must have felt the shiver because he ruffled Murphy's hair before moving away to slip on the hospital robe. He patted the pockets of Murphy's jacket before dipping into one to retrieve two cigarettes and a book of matches.

Without a word, Murphy got to his feet and followed his brother out to the courtyard where they smoked in silence, standing next to each other, each man lost in his own thoughts. Occasionally they reached out to each other, finding comfort and strength in the other's touch. Murphy knew that, despite his nonchalant attitude, Connor was nervous too. He also knew that now more than ever, he had to be strong for his brother's sake.

When they returned to the room, Danae was there, sitting on the hospital bed a bundle of black in her arms. Dressed in her street clothes, her glasses were missing and her hair tumbled down around her shoulders. She was pale and there were large, dark circles under her eyes, absently, she stroked the bundle in her arms with her thumbs.

The twins exchanged a glance at the sight, and Connor sat down beside her, slipping an arm around her shoulders. Murphy mirrored the act on her other side.

"What have ya got there, Danae?" Connor asked softly.

Danae's normal calm was nowhere to be seen; she seemed overwrought, almost near tears. "It was back with your things, there wasn't any damage and I got all of the . . ." she took in a deep breath, ". . . all of the blood out. I thought you'd like to have it back." Connor sucked in a breath as she unfolded the bundle and held it up; it was his brother's black coat.

Their jackets were one of the few things the MacManus brothers had brought with them to America. Even though she could scarcely afford it, their Ma had managed to buy both of her sons black peacoats made out of fine Irish wool as a farewell gift, something to remind them of home. She had presented her boys with the identical packages, made them promise to call once they were settled, and then kissed them good-bye, watching as they boarded the plane to embark on a new life.

In those first nights spent in Boston, Murphy had often found his brother curled under or around his jacket, using it as a balm for the homesickness they were both experiencing. Even now, after so many years in the States, Connor could still be found sleeping under his jacket after a particularly bad day.

Connor took the coat from her and Murphy saw that his hands were trembling ever so slightly. "Thank ye, Danae." He murmured, holding it up to his nose and inhaling the scent of the wool.

She tried to smile, but her shoulders hitched under Murphy's arm. He looked at her and gave her a gentle squeeze. Biting her lip, she tried again, this time offering Connor a watery smile, carefully wiping under her eyes. "Oh, I almost forgot, I found these in one of the pockets."

"My lighter!" Seeing the objects in Danae's hand, Murphy took a swat at his twin, hoping to break the somber mood of the room. "Ye fuck, ye did take it!"

Connor laughed as he took his own lighter and ruffled Danae's hair. "Ye did a good thing, Danae . . ."

"Are we ready?" a new voice from the doorway interrupted. They turned as one to see a nurse standing in the doorway, clipboard in her hand. She was pretty, petite and blond with big green eyes and rosy cheeks.

"Almost." Connor said, reaching out to squeeze his brother's shoulder. "Would ye ladies excuse us for a moment?"

Once the door was shut, Murphy exchanged a glance with is brother, and in that glance was the multitude of things he wanted to tell his brother, a thousand things all boiled down into one simple phrase: _Love ya, bro. _

Connor offered him a wan smile and nodded, the same message in his eyes.

Together the brothers pulled identical rosaries from within their clothing and sank to their knees, heads bowed in prayer.

Murphy and walked with Connor as far as the Medical staff would allow, then watched as his beloved brother disappeared behind double doors. Connor raised a hand in a casual wave before the doors closed, _See ye, _and Murphy mirrored the gesture, pressing his hand against the glass. _See ye. _

When he turned around Danae was standing there, leaning in the nearest doorway, her eyes closed, head bowed slightly. For a moment he thought she was praying, but then the truth dawned on him, she was asleep. He chuckled despite the gnawing worry, knowing all too well how it felt to be that tired. Quietly he walked over to her, slipping an arm around her shoulders. "Danae?" he murmured.

She raised her eyebrows, eyes still closed, leaning into him "Hmm?"

"When did ye last get any sleep?"

"Right now." Her words were soft and a little slurred.

"Before now, luv."

"I'm not sure, what is today?"

He chuckled "Let's get ye someplace quiet where ye can have a kip."

Danae shook her head, straightening and opening her eyes. "No, I'm fine."

"Yer so tired yer fallin' asleep standin' up."

"I just need to catch my second wind, it's no big deal."

"Stubborn, aren't ye?"

"Al . . .ways." the word was broken by a jaw splitting yawn. "Talk to me, keep me awake."

"About what?"

"Hmm . . .tell me how you got your scars."

"My scars?"

"I saw them the other day. One on your arm and one on your side."

Murphy found himself wanting Danae to know the truth, "I got shot."

"Like Connor." It was a statement. Murphy looked at her and was surprised to see that all the sleepiness was gone from her eyes. She tilted her head, searching his face, as though there were hidden answers there.

"Aye, like Connor."

"I don't think I want to know this about you." She whispered.

Murphy swallowed against the sting of her words, it was better that she didn't know, anyways. Safer. "Come on," he said, pushing his words past the pain in his chest, "Let's get some breakfast."

o()o

Danae and Murphy had just returned to Connor's room when the doctor knocked on the door. A balding grandfatherly man in a pristine white jacket, Dr. Keller was one of the best surgeons in the area.

Murphy was on his feet in an instant, "How is he?"

Dr. Keller cleared his throat and looked down at the chart in his hands, "We removed the three sizable pieces of shrapnel that the preliminary x-rays showed, one from Connor's thigh and two from his ribs. Post operative x-rays show nothing else that could cause problems later in life."

Murphy nodded, chewing on his thumb "But how is he?"

The doctor chuckled. "He'll be sore, and the anesthesthetic may make him a little nauseous, but he should be up and around in a few hours. They'll be bringing him back to the room any time now."

"So everything went all right, then?"

"The procedure was one-hundred percent successful. This will add a little time to his hospital stay, but Connor is going to be just fine. "

Relief washed over Murphy like a tidal wave. "Thank ye, doctor." He said grinning.

Nodding sincerely, fighting a smile of his own, Doctor Keller reclaimed his hand and gave Murphy a pat on the shoulder. "It was my pleasure."

Murphy stared at the doctors retreating form for a moment, letting the stress and worry of the day dissipate from his body.

"Murphy," Danae's voice was hushed, "look."

Murphy looked out the window just as the sun burst through the dark clouds, turning the hospital room into burnished gold.

"If that isn't a sign," she said quietly, "I don't know what is."

Murphy couldn't have agreed more.

o()o


	5. Chapter 5

o()o

_Author's Note: Thanks to everybody who has read and reviewed so far, I appreciate it so much! __Your nifty fact for the day, Sláinte (pronounced _Slahn-cha) _is an Irish toast, it's used in place of 'cheers' and literally means heath. _

o(5)o

Connor awoke to the sound of his brother's laughter. He was sore and groggy, but not half as bad as he expected to be. The sound of Murphy's laugh sliced through the fog in his head and made him smile. How long had it been since he had heard Murphy really laugh? Connor couldn't remember.

"And so the kid says 'Well I got a fuck for a duck, a duck for a fuck and twenty bucks for a fucked up duck!" That was Danae; giggling so hard, she could barely spit out the punch line.

Opening his eyes, Connor saw the two of them sitting in hospital chairs across from one another, leaning over a dimestore chess set, foreheads almost touching.

"Christ," Murphy said, rolling his eyes, "Yer jokes are as bad as yer coffee."

"Oh, no," Danae laughed, "my jokes are worse than my coffee could ever be. Wait until I tell you the one about the pirate."

Chuckling, Murphy looked up from the chess pieces and met Danae's eyes. They stared at each other, sobering, their laughter dying away. Danae bit her lip and slowly Murphy leaned forward, reaching out to cup her cheek in his hand.

Clearing his throat loudly, Connor grinned when the two of them sprang apart, looking anywhere but at each other. He was sure that he should have felt guilty for doing such a thing to his twin, but he didn't. Pay back for Jenny O'Reilly in their 9th grade year, he told himself.

Murphy grinned at his brother. "It's about fuckin' time ye woke up, we've been waitin' all day."

"How are you feeling?" Danae offered him a broad smile.

"Pretty good all things conciderin'" Connor shifted uncomfortably and pulled a kidney shaped plastic pan out from behind his back. "What the fuck is this then?"

Danae made a face, "It's an emesis basin. In case you . . . well . . ." she made a helpless gesture with her hands.

Murphy snorted and gave her a teasing glance "For workin' in the ER, luv, yer mighty squeamish. It's a gawk bucket, Conn. The doctor said the stuff they used ta knock ye out might make ye queasy."

"Ah." Connor said setting pan aside, "Actually, I don't feel sick at all. I'm fuckin' starving."

Shooting Danae a look as if to say 'I told you so' Murphy grinned, "I was hopin' ye'd say that."

Connor raised his eyebrows in question and Danae supplied the answer, "I promised that if you were feeling up to it, I'd smuggle in pizza to celebrate."

"Pizza sounds good." Said Connor, "No, pizza sounds fuckin' great."

Danae laughed, "I'll go and place the order."

o()o

When she returned, Danae had not only two large pizzas but also a six-pack of Guinness.

"I think I love you." Connor said popping the top on his beer and tossing a can to his brother.

Danae laughed delightedly and Murphy smiled across the room at her. "Can I open ye a can Danae?" he asked.

She shook her head, reaching into her coat pocket and producing a bottle of water. "Thanks though."

Connor and Murphy looked at each other, aghast, "Water with pizza? That's disgustin'." Connor said.

"Ye don't drink?" Murphy asked.

She looked away, "Not really." Seeing Murphy's frown, she offered him a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Think of it this way, if I don't drink any, there's more for the two of you."

Connor grinned, "Ye have a point there."

"Aye, ye do." Murphy said, still watching her.

"What kind of pizza did ye get?" Connor asked, opening one of the boxes. "Ah, pepperoni and . . ." he peeked in the other one, ". . . cheese. Perfect."

Murphy plucked a slice out of the box and took a bite, "Nicely done." he said through his mouthful.

"I'd like to propose a toast." Danae said, this time giving both brothers a genuine smile. "We are celebrating after all."

"All right," said Connor raising his beer "what are we toasting to?"

"To coming through surgery with an appetite," Murphy suggested, laughing as he dodged his twin's hand.

"Ye can't fuckin' toast to that!"

"Of course ye can, that's what we're celebrating, innit?"

"Here's to coming through surgery, then." Danae said raising her water bottle and the brothers raised their beers in answer.

"Sláinte." She said and laughed at the identical looks of disbelief that turned her way.

"Where the fuck did ye learn that?" Murphy asked incredulously making her laugh even harder.

"Sláinte." Connor said shaking his head as he tapped his beer can against his brother's then against Danae's water bottle.

"Sláinte." Murphy said, mirroring his brother's action, "But I still want to know where ye picked that one up, Danae."

o()o

Stuffed with pizza and beer, leaning over a game of chess with Murphy, Connor was certain that this was the most content he had been in months. It was odd to think that he could be so comfortable straight out of surgery, after being shot, but he was.

He was safe here, and so was Murph. In this hospital room, they didn't have to be the Saints; they didn't have a job that could very easily get them killed, and someday probably would. In this hospital room, they could laugh, and joke, and sleep at night. They could just be themselves.

Danae had sprawled over one of the chairs, kicked her shoes into a corner, and dozed off with her head propped up on her hand. At first she had smiled sleepily at the sound of their laughter and banter, but now she slept soundly.

Connor noticed that every so often, Murphy's eyes strayed away from his chess pieces over to where she was.

"Checkmate." He said, moving his bishop in for the kill.

Murphy examined the board for a moment, chewing his lip thoughtfully. "I think yer right."

"Of course I'm fuckin' right. I've beaten ye the last two games haven't I?"

Groaning, Murphy stretched, cocking his head from side to side and rolling his shoulders.

"Come on," he said, "I need a smoke."

Connor nodded "I was thinkin' the same thing."

Wincing as he slid out of the bed, he let Murphy slip an arm around his waist, supporting him, and together they hobbled out to the courtyard.

Murphy reached into his pocket, pulling out two cigarettes as Connor gingerly sat on a concrete bench nearby.

"Ye know," Murphy said, lighting the cigarettes and offering one to Connor "I sat out here for fuckin' hours the night ye got shot. It felt like my arse was part of that bench I was out here so long."

Connor nodded, taking a thoughtful drag off of his cigarette.

"Is this how it's always going to be?" Murphy asked suddenly, and Connor was taken aback at the emotion in his brother's voice.

"What do ye mean?"

"I mean are we just going ta keep this up until one time the doctor can't get yer fuckin' heart started again? Are we going ta keep going until one, or the both o' us end up dead?"

"Come on, Murph, it isn't like that." Connor said, not wanting to admit that he had been thinking the exact same thing not five minutes earlier.

"It's fuckin' just like that." His twin began to pace, "Someday this is going ta get us killed . . .and . . ." he stopped, shoulder slumping, "And I don't want that ta happen. Fuck, Conn, I don't want ta keep pushing fate until someday it decides ta push back and I'm alone."

The memory of his dream surfaced like a rotten corpse out of water and an unnamable feeling shuddered through Connor.

_Sobbing, he reached out to his fallen brother, dragging himself to where Murphy lay sprawled in a spreading pool of crimson . . ._

They had kept going after Rocco was killed, but how could they keep going when 'they' turned into 'he'?

_He knew just where to aim and he knew that his twin would be waiting for him when it was all over. _

"C'mere." Connor slung an arm around his brother, taking comfort in the warmth of Murphy's body next to his. He wasn't on that concrete floor, he was there and real and safe. They were going to be fine.

Murph leaned against him and sighed, "Do ye ever think about stopping, about just going back ta living our lives?"

"Sometimes." Connor admitted, "But we're doing good here, _real_ good and it's worth it."

Nodding, Murphy took another drag off of his cigarette.

"Ye want ta tell me what the fuck brought this on?"

His brother shrugged, avoiding his eyes.

"Let's go back in then," Connor said gently, flicking away the last of his cigarette and slowly getting to his feet, "there's still a beer each waiting for us."

"Thanks Connor." Said Murpy as he offered his brother a steadying arm.

Connor grinned "Gotta look out for my little brother."

"We don't fuckin' know that yer older. "Muphy gave him an indignant look

"_I _know it, and that's all that matters. Come on, now, before Danae wakes up and thinks we've abandoned her."

o()o


	6. Chapter 6

o()o

_**Authors Note**: I can't make up my mind whether I like Murphy calling Danae 'luv' or not . . . is it out of character or over the top? What do you guys think?  
**Nifty fact for the day:** Galya is Irish slang for a baby or young child._

o(6)o

It was during Connor's third week in the hospital when Danae missed her first visit. She had left the previous morning, playfully betting Murphy that he wouldn't be awake when she came that night. Murphy had made a point to stay awake, just to prove her wrong.

"Where do ye think she is?" He asked, fidgeting with an unlit cigarette.

"She's probably busy." Connor said patting his brother good-naturedly on the back. "She said they've been getting a lot o' people coming through the ER lately.

"Aye," Murphy said, refusing to be disappointed, she would have owed him breakfast too. "She'll be by in the mornin'."

When she didn't show up for the second time that day, Murphy knew something was amiss. "I'm going ta look fer her." He said shrugging into his jacket.

"Murph," Connor began, but Murphy wouldn't hear it.

"No. Ye don't understand. She's been here every step of the way, she's always fuckin' been here. Something's wrong."

"Fine." Connor said exasperatedly, reaching for his crutches, "We'll go ta the emergency room and talk ta her. At least then I can tell her what an idiot ye are."

They found the emergency room to be unusually chaotic and Danae was nowhere to be found, the morning registrar said she had come in to an empty desk and no explanation, something that had never happened with Danae.

"Maybe she's left already." Connor said, but it was an empty statement. He was beginning to agree with his brother's suspicion that something was wrong.

"Let's have a look for her outside, are ye up to the walk?"

"Aye, Let's go."

They heard Danae crying well before they saw her. Following the sound, Connor and Murphy found her huddled in secluded doorway, arms covering her head, sobbing.

There was blood all over her, coating her from fingertip to elbow and spattering her khaki pants. Murphy was by her side at once but she pushed him away with a cry of grief, leaving bloody handprints on his gray t-shirt.

"Danae, what the fuck . . ." When she didn't answer he shook her gently "Danae!"

She looked up and Murphy was bewildered at the raw anguish in her eyes. There was blood smeared across her face and he could tell there was some in her hair. She started to raise a trembling hand to her mouth, but saw the gore there and dropped it to her side, new sobs tearing through her.

"Jesus, fuckin' Christ, who did this to ye?" Murphy had gone still; dangerously calm and over Danae's head, the brothers exchanged a long glance.

_Once this is over, and we're out of this hospital, the motherfucker that hurt her is the first to die._

Connor reached down, balancing precariously on his crutches. "Take a deep breath now, Danae. Where are ye hurt?"

Danae gasped in several breaths that were too shallow and too quick shaking her head. "No . . .it's not mine . . .she . . . Oh, God . . . I tried to start CPR, just until a nurse came, and there was so . . . much blood . . . she was hurt so bad . . . She couldn't have been . . . any more . . . than five. I watched her die . . . I _held _her while she died . . . I . . ." she swallowed, blanching. "Oh, God, I think I'm going to be sick."

Murphy held her hair up, rubbing slow circles across her back with his palm and murmuring nonsense meant to soothe her. Finally, she sank back into the doorway pale and trembling, hunkering back into the corner as far away from the outside world as she could manage.

Looking up Murphy met his brother's gaze and Connor nodded once, answering Murphy's unspoken question.

"Come on, luv," he said quietly, slipping an arm around her waist and hoisting her onto her feet, more blood smearing over his clothing "let's get ye cleaned up."

The twins held a silent conversation the entire way to Connor's hospital room, communicating with glances, body language, and the uncanny bond they shared.

Murphy could sense Connor's outrage over what Danae had told them and wasn't surprised to feel the same twisting in his gut. His brother had always had a soft spot for kids, and Murphy knew that when they found the sick motherfucker that had done this, there was going to be hell to pay.

Once in the room, Connor eased himself into a chair and picked up the telephone, his face unreadable. Murphy led Danae into the bathroom, turning the shower on. "Strip." He told her, turning his back.

"I . . .I can't." she whispered "I'm sorry . . ."

Murphy turned around and saw that she was shivering violently, her entire body jerking with the force of it, there was no way she could undress herself in this condition. "I'll help ye." He said softly.

"What? No." she crossed her arms, looking at him apprehensively.

"Danae," murmured "yer gonna have ta trust me, now. Ye want to wash the blood off don't ye?"

Chewing her lip, she nodded, avoiding his eyes. Murphy could see there was bright crimson welling where she had bitten through her lip; gently he took her face in his hands, forcing her gaze to meet his.

"Then let me help ye, now."

Danae looked up at him, tears brimming in her eyes and spilling over. He could see the pain in her eyes, the sorrow burning there. But as she stared at him, he could see something different, the same intensity that he had seen when she asked him about his scars. It was as if she were looking through him, and reading something that had been written on his soul.

"Danae," he repeated "Let me help ye."

Finally, she looked away and nodded. "I trust you."

Eyes carefully averted, Murphy helped her undress, unbuttoning her blouse, and releasing the clasp of her bra. Once she was nude, he pressed a hand to the small of her back, guiding her into the shower, still keeping his eyes anywhere but on her. "I'm goin' ta find something for ye ta wear. Are ye going to be okay here by yerself?"

"Yes. Thank you." Danae sighed the words more than she spoke them and Murphy felt another stab of pity for her.

He reached through the curtain and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, feeling her wet skin under his palm. "Everything will be all right."

She turned to face him, arms wrapped around her body, water and tears slipping down her face. "That's where you're wrong," she murmured, "Nothing will ever be all right. Not after this."

"It will be, luv, ye'll see."

Stepping out of the bathroom, he locked eyes with Connor. His brother's face was grim. "The whole fuckin' hospital is talkin' about this galya in the ER. Raped then stabbed ta death, she was four fuckin' years old."

Murphy sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose, "Jesus fuckin' Christ."

"Someone just fuckin' dumped her at the emergency doors and fuckin' took off, they said that Danae was outside on break and found her lying out there, but by then it was too late."

"And she died in Danae's arms."

"Aye." Connor tilted his head slightly toward the closed bathroom door, "How's she holding up?"

"As well as can be expected, I guess. She's pretty upset." Murphy chewed thoughtfully on his thumbnail, "Why didn't anybody fuckin' go ta check on her afterwards? Doesn't anybody fuckin' care?"

Connor shot his brother a meaningful look, "They were preoccupied with the little girl and tryin' ta find her family."

"Have they found anybody?"

"The nurse I talked ta said not yet, but they're still tryin'"

Murphy nodded, "We'll leave that to them then. What matters now, is how are we going ta find the bastard that did this?"

o()o

Danae leaned against the cool tile of the shower, letting the water sluice over her as she stared blindly at the porcelain squares.

She was sure that her faith had mingled with the water that was swirling down the drain, never to be seen again. She'd meant what she'd said to Murphy, something inside of her had died with that little girl, and she was certain that nothing would ever be the same.

Every time she closed her eyes, she was back on the emergency room floor, a tiny body in her arms. The warmth of the little girl's blood pouring out over her hands as she tried to staunch the bleeding and the taste of it in her mouth as she tried desperately to breathe life back into that tiny body. Even after scrubbing her skin raw, she could still feel the sticky-slickness of drying blood. The child had still been alive when Danae had found her, maybe if she'd only been a little quicker . . .

Choking on a sob, Danae sank to her knees, burying her face in her hands. _Who would do such a thing to a child?_

"Danae?" she recognized Murphy's voice as he entered the bathroom, "Come on, luv, ye've run out o' hot water." His hand snaked through the shower curtain and turned the cascade off. "I grabbed ye some scrubs ta change inta, they're on the sink. Are ye all right to get dressed?"

"I think so." She said, rising to her feet, "Thank you."

"Yer welcome." He said softly, and she heard the door shut.

Stepping out of the shower, she reached for a towel, hoping that someday someone found the bastard that had hurt that little girl, and that there would be hell to pay.

Clad in clean clothes, all the gore scrubbed from her body and hair, Danae began to feel somewhat better. The horror of the day was rapidly fading into exhaustion, making her feel weak and slightly dizzy.

She was met with matching blue gazes as she stepped out of the bathroom and knew instantly that she had interrupted something very serious.

Danae stared at the twins, transfixed; these weren't the laughing, joking, MacManus brothers she knew. These men were cold, hard, and precise. These were men that got shot and had scars covering their bodies, not the men she had grown so fond of over the past three weeks. Unnerved she backed away.

Murphy stood quickly, breaking the spell as he offered her an earnest smile, "Have a seat with us, Danae.

"How are ye feeling?" Connor asked.

"Better, I think." She said cautiously, "I'm tired."

"Do ye want to go home?"

She shook her head, shuddering at the thought of being alone in her house, with nothing but memories and silence for company.

The twins exchanged a look, some silent question being asked and answered.

"Ye'll stay with us today then." Murphy said.

"I can't." Oh, but she wanted to. Danae's sense of propriety warred with her need for comfort.

"Why not?" asked Connor, and Danae looked away, unable to think of a single reason as her need for comfort won out.

"It's settled then," said Murphy, "Ye can have my bed."

Connor nodded "Ye shouldn't be alone, right now, Danae."

"Do ye work tonight?" Murphy asked and she shook her head.

"Why don't ye keep us company tonight then as well?" said Connor.

Looking at the two brothers, Danae felt a sweet throb of gratitude and affection toward them. Tears welled in her eyes. For once, she didn't have to cope alone.

Murphy slipped an arm around her shoulders and she leaned into him, taking solace in the warmth and solidness of another person close to her.

"Come on," he said "Ye'll feel better after some rest."

"I don't think I can sleep yet. Every time I close my eyes I see her." Despite her best efforts to control them, a couple of tears escaped, slipping down her cheeks. "I'm sorry."

"Yer all right," Murphy said running his hand down her back.

"How about some cards until ye get tired?"

Sniffling, Danae forced the tears back where they belonged, "That sounds great." She said softly, "Thank you both, for everything."

o()o

It took almost two hours, and over a dozen games of poker, but finally Danae leaned against Murphy's shoulder and nodded off.

"Poor girl," Connor said, shuffling the deck one last time before returning them to the package. "That's a fuckin' shitty way ta end yer day."

"Aye," Said Murphy, shifting slightly. "At least she's sleepin' now; she'll feel better when she wakes up."

"I hope so, she was pretty torn up."

Murphy looked down at her remembering her words in the shower: _Nothing will ever be all right. Not after this. _"She'll be okay." He repeated stubbornly "I'm goin' ta get her inta bed."

Danae made a sleepy noise of protest as she felt Murphy move away and Connor chuckled "I think she likes ye."

"Go on outta that." Murphy said as he slid a hand under Danae's knees, lifting her out of the chair, pressing her body against his. "C'mere, luv," He murmured to her "Yer all right."

"I'm serious," Connor protested. "I think our Danae has a crush on ye."

Laying her down on the cot, Murphy brushed a strand of hair away from her face, watching as she curled around his pillow. He didn't say anything, but the corner of his mouth quirked and Connor got the impression that Danae wasn't the only one with a crush.

"Ye like her too, then?"

Murphy shot his brother a look "It doesn't really matter, does it? I can't do anything even if I do fancy her, she wouldn't understand what we do."

Connor shrugged, "Ye never know, Danae seems different than most."

Shaking his head, Murphy pulled the blanket over the sleeping girl, reaching out to smooth her hair one last time. "There's no room for that, and ye know it."

"Oh, I don't know, seems ta me there's always room for a beautiful woman." Connor said as he held up a piece of paper for his twin to see.

"And what the fuck is that?"

Laughing, he turned the paper around. "Remi's phone number," he chuckled at his brother's confused expression "The x-ray tech. Turns out I had a better chance than ye thought."

o()o


	7. Chapter 7

o()o

_**Nifty fact for the day:** Scuttered, buckled, flootered, fuckered, blooted, gee-eyed, bollixed and banjoed all mean drunk. If you aren't too drunk, then you're just a bit jarred._

o(7)o

Danae knocked softly on the door, smiling when she heard Connor's voice inviting her in. Entering, she saw him sitting quietly in bed, newspaper in his hand. Murphy was slumped in a nearby chair.

Looking from Murphy to his twin, she raised a curious and amused eyebrow.

"He was determined to be awake to see ye this mornin'." Connor explained, shaking his head, and Murphy made a muffled grunt in his sleep.

Chuckling, Danae sat down identical plates of biscuits smothered with gravy and two cups of coffee, earning an appreciative grin from Connor.

"This is a nice change from doughnuts."

"I thought so too." Gently she touched Murphy's shoulder, "Wake up, sleeping beauty, I brought you breakfast."

Murphy made a noise that was part snuffle and part groan and opened his eyes. "Mornin'," He said groggily, "yer here early."

She nodded, "I snuck away for a bit. There's something I wanted to talk to you both about."

"What's that?" Connor inquired, his mouth full.

"Someone came by my desk tonight asking about you."

"Police?" asked Connor, and Murphy sat up a little straighter in his chair.

"No, I don't think so, they didn't talk like officers, or look like officers for that matter."

"What did they look like, then?"

"Like every other average Joe that comes through. The only thing I really noticed was their tattoos. They both had something written on the inside of their wrists, I don't think it was English, but I'm pretty sure they both had the same thing."

"Do ye remember what it said?" Connor said, frowning.

She shook her head, "I couldn't see all of it, _Red_-something or maybe something-_angre._"

"What did they want to know?" Murphy asked bringing his thumb to his mouth, chewing on the nail.

"Just if we'd had any gunshot wounds come through the ER in the past few weeks."

"And what did ye tell them?" Connor's voice was tense and Danae shot him a hard look.

"I told them no. Then I told them about the time we had a guy come in that tried to blow his own head off, but missed." She smirked, "They left pretty quickly after that, without asking any more questions."

Connor breathed out a sigh of relief "Ye did good, Danae, I was worried there for a minute."

She gave him a derisive look, wounded by his words; "Please don't tell me that, after all of this, you _really _thought I would tell a couple of strangers that you were here."

"It's not like that," Murphy said, not missing the beginning sparks of irritation in Danae's eyes, "There are just circumstances and we have ta be careful."

"Circumstances," She said flatly.

"It's hard ta explain," Said Connor.

"I'm not stupid, you know. I know that nobody comes through the ER in the shape you did accidentally. I've trusted you and eventually you'll have to trust me, I think I've earned it."

"Danae," Murphy began, but she held up her hand crossly.

"Forget it; I have to get back to work."

Sighing as he watched her leave, Murphy turned to his brother "Well, we did that completely arseways."

Connor nodded, only half listening. There was something gnawing along the edges of his memory. _Red_-something, something-_angre, _

_Standing over him, the shooter had sneered at Connor as he lay bleeding out onto the ground. "I guess even Saints fall from grace sometimes." _

"Murph?" he said.

"Aye."

"I think we need ta make a long distance call."

o()o

Agent Paul Smecker groaned at the telephone's piercing ring. Who in their right friggin' mind was up this early, he wondered. Fumbling the receiver off the hook, he brought it to up his ear.

"Hello?"

"Agent Smecker," The familiar voice chased all traces of sleepiness away, and he bolted upright in bed.

"Murphy?"

"Aye."

The receiver trembled ever so slightly in Smecker's hands. He hadn't heard from the MacManus brothers since the Yakavetta trial, but every morning he scanned the newspaper, keeping an eye out for tidbits that sounded like the Saints' doing. Finding one always gave him a bittersweet twinge of satisfaction. If he couldn't get those bastards off the streets, at least someone was.

"What's wrong?"

A soft chuckle came over the line "What isn't? Listen, Smecker, we need ta ask ye for a favor."

"Name it."

"We've got some guys askin' after us, and we think they may fall inta yer realm o' expertise."

Smecker nodded into the phone, "Go on."

"The only thing we really know is that they have tattoos on the underside of their wrists, _Red_-something or something-_angre,_ we're not sure. Connor says they might be Hispanic."

"And these men came after you at your home?"

"No, they were askin' 'round the hospital."

A prickle of alarm skittered up Smecker's spine, "What are you two doing at a friggin' hospital?"

There was the briefest of pauses, "Connor was shot." Murphy said finally, his voice hard.

"Jesus, is he okay?"

"He's alive."

"What the hell happened?" He heard a hand cover the receiver and muffled voices. After a moment, Murphy came back on the line.

"We were bustin' up a drug deal a while back and things got a little out o' hand."

Smecker frowned, "I read about the drug deal, it was a big thing. The newspaper said it was a double cross; there was never any mention of you two. What I want to know is why that hospital isn't crawling with friggin' cops already? A gunshot wound tends to attract a lot of attention, especially after a bunch of drug dealers turn up dead."

"We have someone here lending us a hand, helping keep it quiet. She's . . . a friend."

"A friend, huh," Smecker said dryly, "Are you sure you can trust her?"

"We can trust her. Look, are ye going ta help us or not?" Murphy's voice had taken on an impatient tinge, and Smecker could almost imagine the dark-haired man pacing the floor.

"I'll check into my files and see what I can find out. How do I get in contact with you?"

There was a brief pause and more muffled voices, "We're at Mitchell County Memorial. Ask for room 119."

The line went dead and Smecker leaned back in bed, sighing as he lit a cigarette. It was shaping up to be an interesting day.

Murphy hung up the phone and turned to his brother. "Smecker says he's going ta check inta it for us."

Connor nodded, "Good. Listen, Murph, there's a lot of shit here that doesn't make sense. How did these guys know which hospital ta check?"

"How did they know ta check at all?" Murphy corrected, "Even if they are connected to that fuckin' drug deal, I didn't leave anyone at that warehouse alive. Nobody knew about ye gettin' shot."

"Are you sure you killed them all?"

Murphy nodded, "Positive. I didn't have time to say the prayer, or do the pennies, what with ye bleedin' ta death and all, but nothing was movin' when we left."

"All right," Connor said frowning, "Maybe they're just takin' a chance that they'll find us by checkin' around all the local hospitals."

"If that's the case, we should be fine since Danae told them we weren't here." Murphy sighed, his head falling back, "Fuck, what are we gonna do about her?"

"Let's worry about that later. Right now the less she knows the better."

Murphy nodded, he didn't like it, but he knew his brother was right. Danae was safer if she wasn't involved.

o()o

Danae was pissed.

It didn't happen often, she liked to think of herself as a pretty agreeable person, but when she did get angry, it wasn't pretty. And now, she had left merely angry about two exits back and was utterly and royally pissed-off.

_Who the hell did they think they were? _

It was the same thought that had been creating indignant ripples in her all morning. Hadn't she been there every step of the way? Hadn't she kept the police away? Hadn't she lied to every single person in her department for them? How could they just turn her away with nothing more than a vague excuse?

How could they not trust her?

"Circumstances." She scoffed under her breath, swiping her badge much harder than necessary. "Leave it to men to have _circumstances_. I put my job on the line for them and they have _circumstances._"

Stalking out of the hospital, still muttering to herself, Danae was too engrossed with being irate to detect the presence of another person coming up behind her until it was too late.

"_Los mentirosos no viven de largo_," A harsh voice whispered unfamiliar words in her ear, startling her, as rough hands clamped over her shoulders, fingers digging painfully into the flesh there.

Gasping, Danae was whipped around just in time to catch a glimpse of metal arcing toward her head. The impact of a gun colliding against her temple offered a blinding flash of pain, and then only darkness as she crumpled to the ground.

o()o


	8. Chapter 8

o()o

_**Authors Note: **Love and cookies to everybody that's read and reviewed so far.  
You guys are the absolute best!  
**Nifty fact for the day:** 'be wide' means be careful. (Be dog wide' means be extra careful) _

o(8)o

Something hurts.

Danae opened her eyes slowly and corrected that thought; _everything_ hurt. She still was sprawled out on the asphalt of the hospital parking lot, the entire left side of her face throbbing.

Gingerly touching her temple, she was only mildly surprised when she drew away reddened fingertips. _Pistol-whipped_ she thought disjointedly, _isn't that what they call it on TV? __I've just been pistol-whipped. _

Slowly, each movement sending another stab of agony through her head, she sat, and then rose laboriously to her feet, using the nearby cars for support. The parking lot was empty except for her, and Danae sighed with relief seeing that her clothing was all still intact and, safe for a splitting headache, she seemed otherwise whole.

_One_ _foot in front of the other_, she told herself, pushing open one of the more remote doors into the building. _Keep moving_. Carefully, she navigated the back hallways of the hospital, avoiding the staff that was bustling around; somehow, it didn't seem wise to let them know what had just happened.

What seemed like an eternity later, she was standing outside of Connor's hospital room. Tapping on the doorframe, she wondered at the idiocy of knocking on an open door with a bleeding head wound. Etiquette had to have a limit sometime, didn't it?

Both brothers looked up at the same time and she was met with identical, startled, blue stares.

"Danae?" Connor's eyes were impossibly wide.

"Oh my God." Murphy uttered, rising to his feet, nearly knocking the chair over as he did.

"I think," she said, wincing and raising a hand to her throbbing head, "That now more than ever, you owe me the truth."

Murphy was next to her in an instant, "What the fuck happened?" he said, moving her hair away and inspecting her bloodied scalp. "Fuck, yer still bleedin'."

"Somebody hit me over the head in the parking lot as I was leaving. I don't know even how long I've been out."

"Sit down, Danae," Connor said as Murphy moved away from her. She could hear water running in the bathroom, "Let us have a look at ye."

She obeyed, sinking gratefully into the plastic hospital chair. Murphy emerged from the bathroom and knelt in front of her, wielding a damp washcloth. Carefully, he daubed at the half-dried blood that had crusted on her face.

"Christ," he murmured, "They cracked ye a good one."

Danae nodded, flinching in spite of his gentle touch, "It feels like it."

"Who did this to ye?"

She hissed in a breath as Murphy touched a particularly tender spot and turned her attention to his brother's question. "I didn't get a good look at him, he grabbed me, hit me, and the next thing I know, I'm coming-to on the pavement."

"That's all ye remember?"

"He said something to me just before he hit me, _Los mentirosos no viven de largo_."

Murphy looked up at her sharply, and then met his brother's eyes over her head. "Are ye sure that's what he said?"

"Pretty sure." She said replaying the words in her mind, "What does it mean?"

Connor scrubbed a hand over his face. "I don't know."

_He's lying._

Danae had no real reason to think so and no way to prove it, but suddenly she was certain of the fact. Connor knew exactly what it meant, and she had a feeling that Murphy did as well.

Narrowing her eyes at both brothers, she pushed Murphy's hands away, crossing her arms over her chest defiantly.

"You guys can't just keep me in the dark here, letting me wander around clueless until the next guy comes along and decides to clobber me over the head with a gun. I need to know what's going on."

What followed had to be the longest silence in history. Frowning, Danae watched as the MacManus brothers had a complete conversation without ever saying a word. The tilt of one's head: a silent question, a slight shift and furrow of the other's brow: the answer. They never broke eye contact and she could almost see a line running across the room, connecting their minds.

Finally, the discussion ended with Connor looking away and Murphy glancing down at the floor, nodding slightly.

"Danae, what do ye know about the Saints?" Connor asked softly.

"Only what I read in the newspaper. A couple of vigilantes," she missed Murphy's wince at the word, "taking out criminals in the South Boston area early last year. There were rumors going around for a while that they were brothers and . . ."

Danae stopped, closing her eyes as realization crashed over her like a tidal wave. "You." She said, "You're the Saints. Of course you are, I should have known."

"Aye, we're the Saints." Connor said, watching her carefully.

"We were bustin' up a drug deal when Connor got shot." Murphy added, "We think the men involved might be lookin' to settle the score."

"Those guys from last night," she said weakly. Oh how it all made sense now, somewhere in between the budding migraine and the sudden feeling that she'd just stepped into the 'Twilight Zone', Danae managed to feel stupid.

"Danae," Murphy began beseechingly, but she shook her head cutting him off.

"No, just let me get my mind around this for a minute. It's not everyday I find out that the two sweetest guys on the planet are actually cold-blooded killers."

"We're still the men ye know." Connor said, reaching out to his stricken brother. Murphy looked as though each of Danae's words had been a physical blow. "We still joke and laugh and drink that damn vile coffee ye make."

"What we do doesn't change who we are. Before we're Saints, we're Connor and Murphy MacManus." Murphy said quietly.

"I know, I know, this is just a lot to absorb at once."

"It is, for certain. The question is what are ye going to do now that ye know?" Connor worked to keep his voice steady. All it would take would be for Danae to panic and call the cops . . . he didn't want to think about the mountain of shit that would bring down on their heads.

Danae smoothed her hair, wincing as her hand slid over the spreading bruise at her temple "How did they know you were here?"

"We don't know. Maybe someone saw us and talked."

"Or maybe they were checkin' all the hospitals ta see if they could find Connor."

"And you can't stay here now." she said, slowly, as if processing what she was being told.

"No," Murphy said, "It's not safe here anymore."

"Do you have someplace to go?"

"Not yet. We'll get a motel room somewhere and lie low until this thing blows over."

She raised her eyebrows at Connor "And you're okay to travel?"

He smiled at her, "I'll have to be."

Danae was silent for several moments, staring at her hands, biting her bottom lip thoughtfully. When she spoke again, it was so softly that Connor barely heard her words. "You'll have to share a room."

Murphy frowned "What?"

"I said, you'll have to share a room, my place only has two bedrooms, but it's out of the way, and safer than a motel."

Met only with bewildered silence and disbelieving stares, Danae sighed, "Listen, you have to assume that if these guys are smart enough to check the hospitals, the next thing they'll check are the local motels. Nobody would expect you to be staying with me."

The brothers exchanged a glance. She was right, but involving her in something like this?

"No." Murphy said tersely, "It's too much of a risk."

"I'm not abandoning you now." Danae's calm was forced, but Connor admired it all the same, the girl had mettle, there was no doubt about it.

"No." his brother repeated stubbornly

"Murph," Connor began, but Murphy rounded on him angrily, eyes blazing.

"I fuckin' said no! Period!" he yelled, pushing past his twin and storming out of the room.

Connor sighed at the slamming door and reached for his crutches. "I'm going ta go talk to him," he said to Danae, "stay here, all right?"

He had to hurry to catch up to his twin, his wounded side protesting the exertion. "Murph!"

Murphy didn't stop, "Leave me the fuck alone, Connor."

Stretching out his hand, Connor grabbed his brother's shoulder, spinning him so they were face to face. Blue eyes met blue eyes; both pairs snapping with anger as Connor finally lost his temper.

"What the fuck is the matter with you?" he yelled into Murphy's face, "Get a fuckin' hold o' yerself, man!"

Murphy slapped his hand away, "Fuck you! She's already been hurt because of us. If we get her involved she's goin' ta get fuckin' killed. It'll be just like . . ." he broke off, going pale, and Connor closed his eyes in understanding.

"Just like Rocco." He completed his brother's thought softly, and Murphy nodded, the ire fading from his face.

"We let him in and it got him killed. I can't," he stopped, swallowing "I can't fuckin' have her blood on my hands too"

"Roc knew what he was getting' inta when he joined us, Murph. Listen now, this is a good idea, and you know it. They can't connect us to Danae and they won't be able ta find us."

His twin scowled, "I don't like it. You heard what that man told her, _Los mentirosos no viven de largo_. Liars don't live long. She was a fuckin' warning to us, Connor. What if the next time the decide to send us one o' her fingers instead?"

"Then its better that we stay near her, innit? Murphy, ye know we won't do this if ye don't want ta, just roll it around a little, all right?"

"No." Murphy said doggedly, shaking his head. "Good idea or not, Conn, I'm not getting her inta this. We stick with the original plan; get a motel room and lie low."

"Fine." Connor said, incensed "Well get the fuckin' room and . . ." his words trailed away as two men rounded the corner at the end of the hall, guns drawn.

"Oh fuck." Murphy whispered.

The twins exchanged a glance, "Get Danae, and go." Murphy said, "I'll meet up with ye at the hotel we were talkin' about earlier.

"Be wide, Murph." Connor said, "Don't go playin' the hero now."

"I won't. You be careful as well."

Connor moved as quickly as he could back down the hall toward his room. "Danae!"

Her head snapped up at the tone of his voice. "What's wrong?"

"We have ta get out o' here, right now."

"It's them, isn't it?" She said grimly, rising to her feet. "They've found you."

"Aye." Said Connor, as he grabbed his jacket and shrugged into it, leaning on his crutches awkwardly.

"Where's Murphy?"

"He'll meet up with us. Come on, now, let's go."

They were halfway down the hallway when they heard the first loud crash, followed by a not-too-distant scream. Danae jumped at the sound, turning wide, alarmed eyes toward the noise.

Connor tugged on her hand as another crash resounded through the corridor. "Shit, they're kickin' down doors, lookin' for us. We have ta keep moving."

Sucking in a deep breath, Danae nodded. "We'll go out through the morgue."

Moving as quickly and noiselessly as possible, Danae directed them though the seemingly endless network of hospital hallways until they came upon a door that looked better suited to a meat locker than a place of healing. Danae punched a succession of buttons on the lock and pulled the door open gesturing Connor inside.

He expected the morgue to be expansive and sterile like they were on TV, this place was anything but. Tiled in a nauseating shade of green, the room was little more than a closet with a chrome table in the middle of it. Connor was fine with that.

What he wasn't fine with, however, was the corpse on the chrome table, covered with a sheet, and the overpowering reek of formaldehyde.

"Holy fuck," He muttered, his step faltering.

Danae offered him a steadying arm, "Come on, we're almost there." Slipping through a final door at the end of the room, she led him out into the daylight.

"Where do we go now?" she asked, squinting against the sun.

"This way," Connor indicated the direction with a jerk of his head, and gave her a wan smile. "Ye did good, Danae."

She made a noise that was part sigh of relief and part-bewildered laugh. "Thanks."

"Come on, Murphy's probably worn a hole through the floor by now, waiting on us."

o()o


	9. Chapter 9

o()o

_**Author's Note:** Special thanks to Aranatta for the help with this chapter. You're my hero!.  
Nifty fact for the day: Arra is a word that's used after something bad has happened. A little more Irish slang for all of you out there in PCLand. _

o(9)o

Murphy paced the motel room impatiently, where the fuck were they? He had escaped the hospital easily, and had been waiting for his brother to arrive for nearly half an hour.

"Murph!" Right on cue, Connor's voice rang out cautiously from outside, just loud enough to be heard. Murphy strode to the door, yanking it open to reveal his twin and a frightened looking Danae.

"Where the fuck have ye two been?" he snapped. "I've been fuckin' worryin' myself to death over ye!"

Despite his sharp words, Murphy was more relieved than irritated. Chuckling, Connor picked up on his twin's feelings, as he so often did, and patted him on the shoulder, hobbling into the room.

"We had ta take the long route out. Those bastards were fuckin' kickin' down doors lookin' for us."

"Christ." Murphy shook his head, bringing his thumb to his mouth, worrying the nail between his teeth.

Connor nodded, "We had ta go through the fuckin' _morgue_," he said as if that were somehow the worst part of the ordeal.

Murphy made a face at his brother but remained silent.

Did ye have any trouble gettin' away?" asked Connor as he eased himself into a battered, not-quite-clean-looking, recliner. "Ow, fuck."

Murphy shook his head, "No, I went the opposite direction; I don't think they even saw me."

He chanced a look at Danae and saw her sitting on one of the twin beds, ankles crossed, staring at the carpet. Walking over to her, he put a warm hand on her knee, "Are ye all right there, luv?"

She met his eyes and offered him an unsteady smile. "No . . . Yes . . . I don't know. I feel like I should be crying or screaming or doing something else exceedingly dramatic."

"How's yer head?" he asked, gently touching the ugly blackening welt that was continuing to spread across the side of her face.

Danae winced but didn't pull back from his questioning fingers, "In about as good a shape as my nerves."

"We'll get ye some ice to put on that bruise in a minute, looks like yer bleedin' a little again too."

Still looking shaken, she nodded, returning her gaze back to the stained carpeting.

"Ye know what we need, man?" Connor said, and Murphy looked at him, cocking an inquisitive eyebrow,

"What's that?"

"Chinese food and beer."

"Amen to that." Murphy chuckled, "What do ye say, Danae, are ye up for some take-away?"

She nodded again, distractedly, "Sure, whatever you guys want."

o()o

Halfway through the meal, the shock of the day wore off and Danae's mind sprang back to life with surprising vengeance.

Connor and Murphy were chatting and joking, gesturing animatedly with their chopsticks as they ate, and throwing bits of food across the table and into one another's take-out container. Between the two of them, they had put away two six-packs of cheap beer and were starting on their third, as well as a bottle of whiskey.

Danae had been watching them quietly, a makeshift ice pack held to the side of her face, toying with her own food. But now, she sat her chopsticks down and looked at them both. "I can't believe this." She said.

"What?" Connor turned to look at her and Murphy stopped mid-swallow setting the bottle of whiskey back on the table.

"I can't believe this." She repeated, agitated, "What the hell happened here today? One minute it's paperwork and coffee like usual, and the next minute it's guys with guns! In the space of a few hours I've been threatened in a language I don't even speak, hit over the head _with a gun_, made a mad escape from my job, and now I'm sitting in a dingy motel room with the infamous Saints of South Boston, eating Chinese."

Receiving only a stunned silence, she threw up her hands "Am I the only one that finds this completely insane?"

"It's been a long day hadn't it?" Connor said sympathetically as he fought a smile, and Danae noticed a matching expression on Murphy's face. They were laughing at her.

All of the stress of the day at last reached a breaking point, and she surrendered to it the best way she knew how.

She laughed too.

Danae laughed until there were tears streaming down her cheeks and she could barely breathe. Every time she tried to stop, she would look at one of the twins and fresh gales of laughter would burst through her like sunlight. She couldn't remember what had been so funny to begin with, but it didn't matter anyway.

Finally, she leaned back in the chair, her giggles tapering off, drawing in a deep breath, and blowing it out.

"Feel better, do ye?" Murphy asked, grinning and popping the top of another beer.

"You know, I really do."

Connor offered her the bottle of whiskey and Danae accepted it tentatively, turning it over in her hands and examining the amber liquid inside. In her mind, she heard the screech of twisting metal and the almost musical jangle of shattered glass. _Never again._

"It works better if ye drink it." Connor said, and in a moment of defiance toward her memories, she took a deep swallow, then another, coughing as the liquor burned its way down.

Murphy chuckled, pounding her on the back as she spluttered. "Looks like our Danae here's a lightweight." he said, taking a long pull from the bottle before passing it back to his brother.

"I never drink." She confirmed, gasping, "This is the first time since the accident."

"Accident?" Murphy frowned at her, tilting his head quizzically.

The whisky had warmed her and provided a pleasantly fuzzy sensation that spread throughout her body. _Go directly to tipsy,_ she thought amused, _Do not pass Go and do not collect $200._

"Yup, I was eighteen, I got drunk, and I drove and I wrapped my car around a light post doing fifty."

"Jesus." Connor breathed.

"I fractured my leg in four places, cracked six ribs, broke three fingers, dislocated my shoulder, and had a concussion. I still have pins in my leg, holding it all together. I was very lucky to come out of it alive."

She shrugged, picking up her chopsticks. "And that's my big secret. Not quite as impressive as yours, but it'll have to do."

"I'd say that's pretty fuckin' impressive." Murphy said, lobbing something green and slimy looking into Connor's take-out carton. "Ye've broken more bones in one sitting than Connor and I both have in our entire lives."

Connor plucked the green substance out of his box and eyed it critically. "What the fuck _is_ this?"

"Bok Choy," Murphy said, his mouth full, "Try it, you'll like it."

"Looks like fuckin' snot to me." said Connor suspiciously.

"It does not!" Murphy took a swipe at his twin, "Now shut it and fuckin' try a bite."

"Yes Mother." Connor laughed, dodging his brother's hand, "Hey, this isn't bad."

"I fuckin' told ye, didn't I?" Murphy looked at the clock and grinned, "Hand us that changer, would ye Danae?"

"What the fuck are ye doin'?" Connor asked, leaning over to pick another chunk of Bok Choy out of his brother's take-out container.

"COPS is on." Murphy took the TV remote control and flashed Danae a charismatic grin, "Thanks, luv."

Connor rolled his eyes at his twin, "For Christ's fuckin' sake, Murph. Are ye really goin' ta make us watch that tripe?"

"What?" Murphy was the picture of innocence, "It's a good program."

"It's fuckin' white trash in trouble, is what it is. Turn it ta that oldies channel, maybe MacGyver is on."

"You and yer fuckin' McGyver." Murphy scoffed, turning on the television and flipping idly through the channels.

"At least McGyver keeps his all clothes on," retorted Connor, "Then again; maybe that's why ye like watchin' COPS so much, all those men runnin' around wearin' no shirts."

"Ye fuckin' eejit," Murphy pitched the remote, his aim as uncannily accurate as it was with a gun, and struck Connor squarely in the face.

There was the clatter of plastic, a split-second of surprised silence, and then the brothers erupted into motion, hands grappling and swatting.

They insulted each other in an array of languages, Connor mostly in Italian, Murphy preferring their native Gaelic. Danae didn't have a clue what they were saying to one another, but it was easy enough to guess.

In a matter of moments, they were a tangle of limbs on the floor, Connor with a leg on either side of his twin, his knees pinning his Murphy's shoulders down. Murphy kicked and twisted, managing to wriggle out from under his brother. Then, wrapping an arm around Connor's chest, he flipped his twin onto the floor, reversing their positions. The battle was on, and it raged with playful ferociousness, peppered with words that Danae made a note to remember for later use.

When at last the scuffle subsided, they were lying side-by-side, laughing and breathless, Murphy's arm slung over his twin's torso and Connor's head resting on Murphy's shoulder.

Connor pressed a hand into his side, still chuckling. "Ow."

"Are ye all right?"

"I am, aye." Connor propped himself up on his elbows, looking down at where Murphy lay comfortably, hands now behind his head. "C'mon and help me up, I fuckin' need a smoke after all that."

Danae watched as Murphy slid an arm around Connor's waist, lugging the lighter-haired man to his feet. Connor balanced himself carefully, using his twin for support and reached for his crutches.

"Steady on?" Murphy asked, watching his brother adjust the crutches, wobbling slightly as he did.

"Aye."

"Good. Are ye goin' ta join us, Danae?"

She shook her head, giving Murphy a diminutive smile. "I'm okay here, thanks."

o()o

A rush of cold wind made Connor shiver as he and Murphy stepped out of the motel room. He started to reach for a cigarette from the pack in his pocket, but his brother already had two lit and was offering him one, a ritual they had both repeated so often it was practically automatic.

Taking the cigarette from between Murphy's fingers, he inhaled a thoughtful drag, looking out at the setting sun, aware of his brother mirroring the action. "Rough fuckin' day," He said in a low voice.

Blowing a perfect ring of smoke, Murphy watched it expand and dissipate in the breeze. "Aye." He said, nodding.

"Arra, any day that ends in beer can't be all bad," said Connor, shrugging. It was a philosophy that both brothers had shared since they had exchanged soda for alcohol at fifteen.

"It can't, at that."

"All things conciderin', I think Danae handled things very well."

Murphy snorted, a corner of his mouth quirking around the cigarette as he remembered her outburst, he'd never seen anybody laugh quite like that before. "Aye."

"She did a fine job gettin' us out o' the hospital, even though we had ta go through the fuckin' morgue." Connor shuddered at the memory, "There was even a fuckin' dead body on the table under one o' those white sheets."

As though it were as infectious as a yawn, Murphy gave a slight shudder of his own. "That's fuckin' creepy."

"Yer tellin' me," Connor took another drag off his cigarette, then eyed it thoughtfully, "I swear ta God the fuckin' thing moved."

"Yer full o' shit, ye know that?"

"Aye," Connor chuckled, nodding. "But it doesn't change the fact that Danae knows what's what now, and she's still here. Fuck, she even offered us a place to stay." He shot his brother a meaningful glance.

"Don't start that shit again, Connor, we're not gettin' her involved any more than she already is."

Connor held his hands up in mock surrender, "I was just sayin' . . ."

"Well, fuckin' don't." Murphy's voice was resolved, but not angry, and Connor wondered was on his brother's mind.

"So, have ye kissed her yet?" he said and had the satisfaction of watching his twin choke on the drag he had been in the middle of taking.

"What?"

"Ye heard me."

Murphy shook his head, looking away, "We don't think o' each other like that. We're just friends."

"Lyin's a sin, Murph."

"Fuck ye, Connor."

Flicking away the last of his cigarette, Connor grinned seeing the flush that was rising out of his brother's collar. _Friends my arse,_ He thought amusedly, turning to go back inside.

o()o


	10. Chapter 10

o()o

**_Authors Note:_ **_Just a note to say thanks to everyone who's R/R Martin's Masterpiece, Play It Again, Sam and this, or course! It's you guys that keep me writing and I appreciate you guys so much!  
**Nifty fact for the day:**_ Die Essiggerken jagen mich _means 'the pickles are chasing me' or literally, 'the pickles hunt me', apparently Murphy was having a very strange dream.  
_**After the fact: **_A huge and belated thank you to juvenile_justice for the correction of my (or rather Connor's) German . . . I appreciate you keeping me in the right. :)_

o(10)o

Danae awoke in the middle of the night with a start. Her first thought was _I'm late for work! _Which was followed almost immediately by _Ow, my head._

She moved to press a hand against the ache in her skull, only to jerk it away again with a hiss of pain. Oh, right, giant bruise, she'd have to make a point to remember that.

"Danae?" she recognized Connor's voice in the darkness, "Are ye up?"

"Yeah. Sorry, did I wake you?"

A nearby lamp clicked on, revealing Connor propped up one elbow on the bed next to hers, palm pressed into his bandaged side, and Murphy sprawled across the couch on the other side of the room, fast asleep. She ferociously ignored the fact that they were both shirtless, revealing well-muscled torsos and arms.

"Ye didn't." he said, "I was just lyin' here, thinkin' about going out for a smoke."

"How are you feeling?"

Connor chuckled, reaching for his shirt and tugging it over his head with a groan, "Probably about as grand as ye are."

"That bad?" She asked with concern and he nodded.

"I didn't realize how much it fuckin' hurt until I didn't have anything to dull the pain. I'm fuckin' miserable."

She winced sympathetically, remembering that all of his pain medications had been left behind in their haste to flee the hospital.

There was a muffled grunt from the couch and Murphy shifted in his sleep. "_Die Essiggurken jagen mich. . ._" he muttered indistinctly before settling again.

Connor snorted, shooting his brother an amused glance. "Fuckin' Murph," He said affectionately.

"What did he just say?" Danae asked, whatever it had been, it hadn't been English.

"_Die Essiggerken jagen mich_." Connor repeated, speaking the words clearly. "It's German."

"Murphy speaks German?"

"Murph fuckin' dreams in German, but yeah, we both speak it."

"What's he dreaming about?"

"_Senf . . ._" Murphy made another small noise of distress, brow furrowing, and Connor slid out of the bed, limping painfully over to where his brother was sleeping.

"I don't think we want ta know. It sounds as though the condiment aisle is gettin' the better of him."

Gently Connor placed a hand on his brother's chest. "_Alles ist fein, Murphy_." He murmured, and Murphy quieted. "_Du bist sicher_."

Danae watched, fascinated; she'd always wanted to learn another language and loved hearing one spoken aloud. "What did you just say to him?"

"I told him that everything was fine and he was safe. That's usually all it takes ta get him ta calm down." Connor gave his brother one last compassionate pat on the cheek before straightening up, wincing as he did. "He'll be all right."

She looked at the now peaceful Murphy lying across the couch. . His hair was damp and ruffled making him look younger and more vulnerable than when he was awake and his hands twitched every now and then, fidgeting even though he was sleeping soundly

For a moment, Danae found herself wanting to touch him; her fingers itched to weave themselves into the darkness of his hair and find out if it was as soft as it looked.

Connor cleared his throat loudly, startling her. "When yer done ogling my brother, maybe ye'd like to keep me company while I step out fer a smoke."

Embarrassed, Danae quickly looked away from Murphy, heat flooding to her cheeks. "Yeah, sure, okay." she said.

Using the wall for support, Connor shuffled over to the door and held it open for her, never losing his knowing smirk, "Let's go then."

The chill of the evening sliced through Danae's work clothes as they stepped out of the hotel room. Crossing her arms, she sighed out a deep breath, watching it plume and fade into the darkness.

Beside her, Connor lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, his head falling back as he did. "Not quite as good as Percocet, but it'll have to do." He tapped another cigarette out of the pack and offered it to her.

Danae shook her head, "Thanks, but no thanks."

"Ye don't smoke and ye don't drink, I'm startin' ta think ye're too borin' for yer own good."

She laughed, shaking her head. "If this is what the exciting life is like, I think I'll stick with boring."

"Amen to that." Connor chuckled, replacing the pack in his pocket. "Ye know, Danae," he said, looking at her meaningfully, "Murphy is really growin' fond of ye."

His words took her by surprise, making her heart kick up a notch.

"We both have a soft spot for ye, of course, ye're a good friend," he continued, exhaling smoke into the night sky, "but I've seen the way Murph looks at ye sometimes, and it's not a look my brother gets very often."

Danae remained silent, trying to organize her suddenly anarchic thoughts. _And the plot thickens_, she thought with a mental sigh.

Murphy cared for her. Murphy, who smoked like a chimney and swore in half a dozen different languages. Murphy, who fidgeted constantly, and went to Mass every Sunday and dreamt in German. Murphy, who had once almost kissed her over a game of chess, and who made her heart miss a beat every time he flashed that captivating grin of his.

Murphy, who also just happened to be a vigilante and a killer.

_Speak of the devil,_ The motel door opened and he stepped out, yawning and shrugging into his coat. _Or rather, speak of the Saint_.

"It's fuckin' freezin' out here." Murphy mumbled, reaching into the pocket of his twin's jacket and withdrawing a cigarette, bouncing a little to keep warm.

"Ye should put some fuckin' shoes on, ye dope," said Connor, shifting slightly to lean against the building, flicking open his lighter. "Ye'd be warmer."

Danae and Murphy both looked down at the same time, and Murphy wiggled his toes, a rueful smile curving his mouth.

"I s'ppose so." He took a deep drag off of his cigarette, making a sound of gratification deep in his throat as he did. "So what the fuck are ye two doin' up this early?"

"It's my normal time to be awake. Actually, it's my lunchtime right now." Danae said quietly and he nodded, turning his attention to his brother, an inquisitive eyebrow raised.

Connor shrugged, scratching the top of his head, "Couldn't sleep. My fuckin' side feels like its bein' dragged over hot coals."

Murphy's eyes widened, concern showing on his face. "Are ye all right, do we need ta get ye some help?"

"No, I don't need help; I'm fuckin' standin' out here smokin' aren't I?" Connor half-chided, half-teased, "Besides who the fuck would ye call?"

Giving his twin one last appraising glance, Murphy looked away, chewing on his bottom lip. "I'd find someone." He said absently and Connor smiled.

"I know ye would." He placed a hand on the back of Murphy's neck, "I know."

Taking one last drag off of his cigarette, Connor flicked it away. "Hurry up and finish your fag so we can get back inside where it's warm."

o()o

Morning found the three of them huddled together on the couch, covered in a comforter, asleep, with Danae sandwiched in between the brothers. Yawning, she slid out from between them shivering at the chill of the room, and padded to the bathroom.

When she came out, Murphy was awake, scratching his head sleepily. "Mornin'."

"Good Morning." She replied hunting for her shoes. "Sleep well?"

"Well enough." He said, burrowing back down into the warmth of the comforter. "Fuck, its cold in here."

"Yeah, it is. I'm glad to see that Connor finally nodded off." She picked up a shoe from beside the door. One down . . .

"Myself as well, he wasn't lookin' too fit last night."

"I know, he was . . . Aha!" Danae reached under the bed, and then stood up, brandishing the other shoe triumphantly.

"Where the fuck are ye goin'?" Murphy asked as she sat down, sliding on her newly discovered shoe and tying the laces.

"I'm going home."

"The fuck ye are."

Danae raised an eyebrow in challenge; she didn't appreciate being told what to do, and her natural independence reared its head. "And why not?"

Murphy flung the comforter back and strode over to her. With a single finger, he gave the injured side of her head a sharp tap, pressing his lips together when she flinched.

"That's why not. It's not fuckin' safe."

Raising her own hand to the now smarting bruise, she shot him a deprecating look, "That _hurt_ Murphy."

"I know it fuckin' hurt, and it'll hurt a lot more if those fuckin' guys come back ta finish what they started with ye."

"Nobody knows where I live, my house is perfectly safe . Besides, I can't just skip work."

"For Christ's fuckin' sake!" Murphy made an aggravated gesture with his hands, his eyes stormy.

"Lord's fuckin' name," Came a muffled, irritated, voice from the couch. Under the dingy comforter, a Connor-shaped hump stirred, "What the fuck are ye two goin' on about, then?"

Murphy turned to his twin for assistance "Danae here's goin' home,"

"The fuck she is." The Connor-lump said, still hidden under the blanket.

Danae rolled her eyes wondering if anything could possibly be more stubborn than crabby MacManus men first thing in the morning.

"Listen guys, what happened yesterday was terrible; beyond terrible in fact, but it doesn't change the fact that I still have bills to pay and a life to live. You guys are safe, they can't connect us, I am going home now and I'm going to work tonight."

"Danae,"

"No." she shook her head obstinately "No arguing, this is my decision and neither of you are going to change my mind, so stop trying."

"Fuckin' stubborn woman," Murphy muttered under his breath, just loud enough so she could hear, and the Connor-lump repeated something that sounded remarkably similar.

"Never forget it." She said, flashing them a wide smile as she opened the door.

"Danae, wait," Murphy cupped her elbow, pressing something into the palm of her hand.

Looking down she saw one of the plastic cards that unlocked the door of the motel room. "Check by before ye go in tonight." He said, his tone softening, "and on yer way home."

"I will."

"Danae, please, promise me you'll be careful." Murphy's eyes were wide and somber. Behind him, the Connor-lump made a grunt of concurrence.

"I promise." She said, giving him a small smile before tucking the card in her pocket and slipping out of the door.

o()o

Agent Paul Smecker glared at the telephone on his desk, willing it to ring. When it refused to comply, he reached to pick up the receiver, then thinking better of the act, he left it alone.

He'd called Mitchell County Memorial at least a dozen times this morning and had received the same answer each time. Connor MacManus and his brother disappeared yesterday. No, they didn't sign out against medical advice, and no, they were not transferred to another facility. They had simply vanished.

With no way to get in touch with them, all Smecker could do now was wait.

Running a hand through his already disheveled hair, he made a noise of frustration. He'd been up all night, surrounded by folders and boxes trying to connect the dots from a hundred newspaper clippings and a hundred files to form a picture, some idea about these men that were out to destroy the Saints.

He'd been about to give up, when a newspaper blurb had caught his eye. It was the starting piece to a puzzle assembled out of dossiers and articles. The image it created wasn't a pleasant one: yet another cluster-fuck of criminals trying to worm their way into the city, using violence and degradation as a foothold. As if the city didn't have enough of those things as it was.

And the Saint's had unwittingly stepped right in the middle of it.

The phone rang, startling him, and he grappled for the receiver, nearly toppling his coffee cup as he did. "Hello?"

"Agent Smecker."

Smecker pinched the bridge of his nose, relief sweeping through him at the sound of the lilting voice on the other end of the line.

"Murphy. Where in the hell are you guys? I've been trying to call you all damned morning."

"We ran into a little trouble at the hospital." Murphy said, and Smecker heard Connor speak in the background. "Shut it, Conn."

"What kind of 'little trouble?"

A sigh, "Those men we talked to ye about came back lookin' for us, this time with guns."

"Jesus Christ."

"We got out okay, but we can't go back ta the hospital, we're staying at a motel until this cools down a bit and we can get out o' the city."

"That may not be good enough." Smecker said, wondering how exactly to mete out his news."

"What do ye mean?"

"I've been working on this all friggin' night and let me tell you, it's not a pretty picture. You both may want to listen to this."

There was a moment of silence, followed by a couple of muffled thumps, and Murphy's voice came back on the line, "We're both here. Now, what did ye find out?"

"The tattoo your friend saw, _Red_-something and something-_angre._ I did some checking around, talked to a couple of guys in Corrections, and it turns out that the tattoo actually reads _Redima con Sangre._"

"That's Spanish." Murphy said quietly.

"Redeem with Blood." Connor interjected, and the detective couldn't stop a small smile from escaping at the sound of his voice. Smecker would never confess to it, but he had been worried about the lighter-haired man. Even for a Saint, being shot was a serious occurance.

"Yeah," he said, "that's what they told me it meant. It's characteristic of a certain gang in Columbia, called _Sacerdotes De la Calle_."

"Street Priests?" Murphy said incredulously, translating, and his brother snorted.

"That's fuckin' pathetic."

"They were small time until a couple of years ago. I haven't found any record of what changed yet, but this petty little gang suddenly became very, very important in the drug world."

"So what's this have to do with us?" asked Murphy, and Connor echoed the question.

"They've been trying to expand into your area for months, except it's not easy with the Russian and Italian mafias already established there. Rumor has it that the drug-deal you guys stopped last month was actually a major shipment, it was supposed to be these guys' big break."

"And we ruined it for them." Connor finished the thought grimly.

"Fuckin' brilliant."

"Listen, guys," Smecker began, "be careful. The things I've read about this group in some of these files . . ."

He stopped, realizing that his words were suddenly falling on deaf ears. A hand had covered the receiver, muffling their words but he could hear the brothers talking impatiently to one another, voices rising and falling as they spoke. After a lengthy discussion, Connor came back on the line.

"Thanks for the info, Smecker. We'll be in touch."

Smecker stared at the phone for a moment as the line went dead, then turned his attention back to the stacks of files and boxes that cluttered his desk. He had a lot more work to do.

Murphy hung up the phone and exchanged a glance with his brother. "Fuckin' hell." He said, reaching for his jacket and shrugging into it.

"Where are ye goin'?"

"I have ta get our bags from where I stashed them after ye got shot. If these bastards are lookin' for us, I want to have some protection on me."

Connor nodded, reaching for his own jacket. "Let's go."

o()o


	11. Chapter 11

o()o

**_Author's Note:_**_ Listen closely to the part in the movie where the boys are talking about rope to see where Connor's nickname came from.(I'm proud of that one)  
**Nifty fact for the day**: __Cnawvshawling means complaining. It's a great word.  
**Special Thanks:** to MKOLO for all your help, my brain would have exploded without it. (be sure to check out her fic Redemption!)_

o(11)o

Danae swiped her badge, nodding to the morning nurse as she left the building. It had been one of those nights and she was glad that it was finally over. She was looking forward to seeing Murphy and Connor, then going home to a hot bath and bed. No better way to end the day.

Stepping outside a flutter of uneasiness went through her. The sun had yet to rise and the street lamps cast unwelcoming shadows across the employee parking lot. Adjusting the strap of the gym bag she was carrying more firmly on her shoulder, she shook her head, trying to dispel the nervous butterflies forming in her stomach.

_Calm down,_ she chided herself, _There's nothing to be afraid of_.

But that was a lie, something very real and very frightening had happened to her yesterday. There was plenty to be afraid of, and she had the bruises and the lingering headache to prove it.

Behind her, the growingly familiar sound of a lighter made Danae start. Uttering an undignified 'Eeep!', she whirled around, her heart in her throat, and came face to face with Murphy.

She shouldn't have been surprised to see him. In the back of her mind, she'd known that he'd show up to make sure she was safe. _Protector of the innocent, _she thought dryly, and then smiled faintly as she realized how true the statement really was.

"Jumpy, aren't ye?" he asked, smirking around his cigarette.

"Yes . . . No! . . . What are you doing here?"

Murphy shrugged, taking a drag off of his cigarette, and exhaling. Watching him, she noticed that he was making an effort to blow the smoke away from where she stood and the thoughtfulness of the gesture made her smile.

"I thought I'd walk ye home." He said at last.

"That'd be great, Thanks. We have to stop by the motel on the way though." Danae couldn't stop a chuckle from slipping out; she was quite pleased with herself.

He looked at her, raising a questioning eyebrow

"I grabbed Connor's painkillers on my break." She said, indicating the gym bag she was toting. "I took the rest of your guys' things from the hospital room too."

Murphy grinned, "Nicely done. Ye didn't have any trouble getting inta the room?"

Shaking her head and hurrying to match his long-legged stride, Danae said, "Things were still so crazy from yesterday; housekeeping hadn't even cleaned it. I just walked in and took what I thought you both would want."

"So ye're a regular cat-burglar now?"

"No question about it, now all I have to do is get one of those masks and some rope." She said making Murphy choke on a laugh.

"What's so funny?"

"It's a long story, luv." He said, still laughing as he flicked away the last of his cigarette. "Remind me and I'll tell ye sometime."

Reaching the motel, Murphy swiped his card through the lock, and pushed the door open, nodding for her to enter.

"How're ye feelin'?" he called out to his brother.

"Like hell." Connor was hunched over the rickety table, facing away from them. At the sound of his brother's voice, he sat up, turning to look at them, and Danae saw the gun in his hands.

Her first instinct was to recoil. She took a stumbling step backward, colliding with Murphy as she did.

"Whoa!" he said, planting his hands on her shoulders. "Are ye all right?"

Connor shoved the weapon into a black duffel bag and splayed his empty hands. "It was just a gun, Danae."

"I know, I know, it just surprised me, that's all." She said, taking in a deep breath, blood rushing to her cheeks. _Coward,_ she thought to herself derisively. "Don't the motel managers frown on early morning target practice?"

"I was cleanin' it, smartass." Connor chuckled through a wince, rising from the chair. "Ow, fuck."

Murphy made no move to help his brother, but Danae could feel him watching, ready to lend a hand. Slowly, using the table for support, Connor straightened, his face strained.

"Look Ma," he said smiling painfully, "No crutches."

She barely had time to smile back before Connor's knees buckled, setting him down hard in the chair. Behind her, Murphy tensed, sucking in a quiet breath, but he still did not move. Danae got the feeling that when and when not to help his twin was something that Murphy knew very well.

Slipping the gym bag off of her shoulder, she offered it to the lighter-haired man. "Here, I think you might want this."

"What is it?" Connor asked, opening the bag and looking inside. "Very nice, thank ye, Danae." He said relief evident in his voice as he pulled out an orange prescription bottle full of painkillers.

"Aye, thanks Danae," Murphy grinned, "Now I don't have ta listen ta his Cnawvshawlin_'_ all night long."

She smiled as Connor batted at his twin. "Shut it. If I remember right, ye were no angel after ye were shot either."

"Ye're mighty fuckin' narky this mornin', Mitu." Murphy said.

"I'm not fuckin' narky!" Connor protested, "And for Christ's sake don't fuckin' call me that."

"Mitu?" Danae asked, fighting a smile. "What does that mean?"

"It's what Ma used ta call Connor when he was little." Murphy grinned, his eyes sparkling and mischievous.

"Murph," Connor began, warningly.

"Ye see, when he was a lad he didn't like to be alone. Neither of us did, really, but Conn was the worst about it by far."

"You shut your gob, Murphy, or I swear ta fuckin' Christ . . ." Connor's threat was accompanied by a swinging fist.

Murphy evaded the blow easily, completely ignoring his twin. "No matter what Ma or I were doin' he'd always be right there with us yellin' 'Me Too! Me Too!' at the top o' his lungs."

"Ye fuck!" A blush had started to rise out of Connor's shirt collar, inching up his neck.

"The name kinda stuck after that," said Murphy, laughing at his brother's discomfiture.

"Don't listen to him, Danae." Connor said, struggling to remain stern, "its all fuckin' lies."

"He's just sayin' that 'cause he's narky."

"For the last time, I'm not fuckin' narky! I'm fuckin' exhausted is what I am."

Murphy gave his brother a brief, scrutinizing, glance, sobering. "Ye should pop a couple o' those pills now and have a kip."

"Perhaps I'll do just that." Connor said smiling tiredly, and Danae noticed just how worn out both brothers looked.

"I should get going." She said quietly, "I'll stop by tomorrow, okay?"

"Tonight," They said in unison and she stifled a laugh with her hand.

"Tonight it is."

Murphy exchanged a swift look with his twin, and Connor nodded. "C'mon, luv," Murphy said, "I'll finish walkin' with ye."

Danae nodded her goodbye to Connor and allowed Murphy to press a hand to the small of her back as they stepped out of the motel room and into the dawning day.

The sun was starting to rise, staining the autumn clouds with blazing pinks and golds. In the hush of the morning, the city seemed tranquil and clean. Danae closed her eyes for moment, inhaling the scent of fallen leaves and damp pavement as they walked.

Today was going to be a good day; she could feel it.

"Are ye okay?" Murphy frowned at her.

"Yeah, I'm fine, just enjoying the morning. Sunrise is my favorite part of the day."

"Why?"

The breeze picked up, and Danae smiled into it as it ruffled her hair, feeling better than she had in quite a few days.

"It's like no matter what happens during the night, when the sun comes up it's a new beginning. Watching the sunrise is kind of like watching the slate being wiped clean. A fresh start every day."

Realizing that he was staring at her, she looked down, suddenly sheepish, "It sounds kind of stupid out loud, doesn't it?"

"No," Murphy's voice was soft, "It doesn't sound stupid at all."

"So tell me something about yourself." She said self consciously, changing the subject as quickly as possible.

"Ye already know all ye need ta about the Saints."

Danae couldn't quite place the tone in Murphy's voice; it was a little wistful and a little exasperated all at once.

"I don't want to know about the Saints." She said, threading her arm through his, and giving him a wry smile, "I want to know about Murphy."

o()o

". . . and so then she turns right around and gives Connor a shot ta the nuts, just like that."

"You're joking!" Danae grinned, eyes wide as she listened to Murphy's story. "What did he do?"

"He fuckin' fell over, is what he did; that shit hurts."

"Especially coming from a big, fat, angry lesbian?"

"Aye, but I made sure she got hers in the end." He said raising his eyebrows, mirth barely contained.

"Please tell me you didn't hit her."

Murphy beamed proudly, "Of course I did, I fuckin' knocked her out besides."

"She was a girl, Murph!"

He snorted, "Just barely, Connor swears that she was pre-op and I'm inclined to agree. Besides, yer missin' the point here, the point is that she kicked me brother in the balls."

"I think the point is that you shouldn't mess with big, fat, angry, lesbians."

Murphy chuckled, shaking his head as they rounded the corner leading toward her apartment complex. It was a looming orange monstrosity with delusions of innovation. A single stunted tree sprouted from the cracked pavement bordering her patio, surrounded by several potted plants.

Pulling a set of housekeys out of her pocket, Danae stepped up to her front door, unlocking it and giving it a small push. "Well, this is my stop." She said softly, "Thanks for the company."

Murphy nodded, his gaze never leaving her face, and she found herself staring back into the guileless blue of his eyes. _Someone could get lost in eyes like that._ She thought, fascinated.

Reaching out, he took a strand of hair that had fallen from her haphazard bun, rubbing it between his fingers before tucking it back behind her ear. Smiling, he brushed a hand across her cheek, running his thumb slowly over her bottom lip.

Danae couldn't catch her breath, couldn't think, as the sensation of fingers on skin swallowed her whole. Murphy's hands were rough, calloused by years of hard work, but his touch was gentle, fingertips whispering over her face as he traced her features.

Bringing her hand to his, she felt a tiny shiver run through him as she explored the peaks and valleys of his knuckles. She liked his hands, they were deft and graceful, covered with scars leftover from an uncountable number of fights and instances where he'd lost his temper, unleashing his wrath on some unsuspecting wall.

They were hands of someone who worked hard for a living, someone who would look you in the eyes when he shook your hand, someone who could find all the right places to touch to make your knees turn to jelly and your head fall back . . .

It was only when she began to feel a little dizzy that Danae became aware that she was holding her breath. She exhaled with a nervous laugh and Murphy shot her an amused half smile, raising his eyebrows.

"What?"

"I guess you just take my breath away." She whispered, smiling up at him.

Chuckling, he slid his hand up to cup the back of her neck, sending sparks throughout her body as he caressed the sensitive skin along her throat and behind her ear.

She moved nearer to him, intertwining their fingers, and Murphy bent down, brushing his lips across hers. It was the barest of touches, warm and soft, and it made Danae's heart start pounding in earnest. Pulling away, she felt the beginnings of a huge mawkish smile tugging at her lips; she fought it for a moment, and then gave, rising up on her toes for another kiss.

This time, kiss was a little harder, less sweet and more wanton. She pressed her hand against Murphy's cheek, feeling the stubble along his jaw prickle under her fingers.

Slipping an arm around her waist, he pulled their bodies together and she could smell smoke and wool and the subtle spice of his cologne. The scent was cool, heady and distinctly Murphy.

He surrounded her, making her safe in the circle of his arms while his mouth made safety the very last thing on her mind.

Breaking the kiss, she moved back, trying to reign in her freewheeling emotions. Part of her wanted to invite him inside and continue what they had started. The idea sent a bolt of sensation to her core, making her blink at the intensity of it. She was aware of Murphy watching her closely, and blood rushed to her cheeks as she saw the heat in his eyes.

Oh God, she was in way over her head with this. Common sense won out over her desire and she smoothed her hair, taking another step away from him.

"Good night, Murphy." The words trembled slightly, but she managed to get them out.

He gave a short chuckle, looking down at his shoes. "Sweet dreams, luv, make sure ye stop by tonight."

"I will." Slipping inside, she shut the door and rested her forehead against the painted wood, sighing, her thoughts tumbling over themselves. Two in particular warred to be heard.

_Way, _way over her head, and

A _very_ good day, indeed.

o()o


	12. Chapter 12

o()o

_**Author's Note**: SAC stands for Special Agent in Charge. Assuming that Smecker is a field agent, the SAC would be his superior._

o(12)o

"Agent Smecker?"

A semi-familiar voice jolted the detective from the file he was engrossed in. "What is it, Caldwell?" he said, addressing the young man standing before him.

"H.R. sent me down to tell you that the request you put in has been approved. Your flight leaves tomorrow at six, and we've already reserved you a rental car in addition to your hotel room."

"Fantastic." Smecker said, "Tell Annie to get these files boxed up, I want them sent to my hotel room as soon as possible. Have her call the local P.D. and let them know what's going on, just the bare bones of the situation though, there's no need to get everybody excited yet. I'm going to go home now and start packing."

"Yes, sir," the young man said, nodding, "and sir?"

Smecker raised his eyebrows inquisitively slinging his suit-jacket over his shoulder.

"The SAC wants to see you before you go."

Smecker fought the urge to grimace, and nodded the last thing he needed right now was to deal with that imperious prick. "Thanks, Caldwell." He said, "I'll make sure I talk to him."

"Yes sir." The young man walked out of the office and Smecker sighed.

The SAC had been riding his ass since his last case in the Boston area; the case in which he had met the MacManus brothers, the case that had changed Smecker's life forever.

There wasn't a chance that the SAC didn't take to rub his nose in the fact that he 'blew' the case by not arresting the Saints. And although Smecker knew he was doing the right thing, he hated the idea of being thought of as a disappointment.

It was something that went against his very nature; he had always been the brightest and the best. Top of his class at the academy, one of the quickest promoted agents in the field; Smecker didn't know the meaning of the word failure. Having that taken away was like losing a loved one, and the SAC knew it. The overbearing asshole loved rubbing salt in that particular wound and Smecker was not looking forward to listening to whatever the he had to say today.

He had more important things to deal with right now. The more information he dug up on these Street Priests, the grimmer the picture became.

o()o

The airport was crowded and noisy. Hundreds of conversations melded together to make a single droning buzz that warred with the announcements blaring overhead. People milled in every direction, tugging luggage behind them, hurrying to and from their boarding gates.

Smecker stepped out off of the plane rolling his shoulders to relieve the tension that had knotted his muscles during the flight; he had never been much of a flyer.

Glancing around the busy terminal, he spied his name neatly printed on a cardboard sign not too far away. Making his way through the crowd, he extended a hand towards the man holding the sign.

"I'm Paul Smecker."

The man shook his hand heartily. "It's a pleasure to meet you Agent Smecker, I'm Detective Bill Croghan. The precinct sent me down to make sure that you get settled in all right."

Bill Croghan was a powerfully built man; stocky was the first word that came to Smecker's mind. He had close a cropped haircut that didn't quite disguise the fact that he was balding, a thick mustache the same steely gray as his thinning hair and pale eyes that were both careworn and intelligent. He gave the impression of a man that had never been anything other than a cop, and couldn't imagine ever being anything else.

"I appreciate that." Smecker said, studying the detective casually.

"No problem." Croghan said, "There's a squad car waiting out front now. As soon as my partner gets his lazy ass back here we can get your luggage and get out of here . . . ah there he is."

The detective waved a hand impatiently, "Townsend!" he bellowed, making Smecker flinch, "Over here!"

A tall, lanky looking man emerged from the crowd, awkwardly balancing three cups of coffee between his hands. Significantly younger than Detective Croghan, this man had dark hair, small dark eyes and the harassed expression that only a rookie could manage. He reminded Smecker a great deal of Detective Greenly from the South Boston P.D.

Detective Croghan took one of the cups of coffee and offered another to Smecker. "Agent Smecker this is my partner, Joshua Townsend."

"Pleasure." Townsend said, and Smecker inclined his head in greeting.

Detective Croghan took a drink of his coffee and grimaced shaking his head. "I swear to God, Townsend, how hard is it to get a goddamned cup of coffee? This shit tastes like deer piss."

Townsend opened his mouth to speak, but Detective Croghan made a dismissive gesture, already walking away from the younger man.

"Forget it. You know, that's the problem with you rookies nowadays, you don't know shit from shinola." He shook his head, "Come on, Agent Smecker, let's get your luggage, and get the hell out of this place."

Taking a swallow of his own coffee, Smecker flashed Townsend a knowing smirk, and then followed Detective Croghan toward the baggage claim.

o()o

Sliding his keycard into the lock, Murphy opened the door and smiled, seeing Connor asleep, stretched out across one of the motel beds, using his jacket as a makeshift pillow.

For a moment, he watched Connor breathe. His brother's chest rose and fell in a rhythm that was as familiar to him as his own heartbeat. This was the first time in days that Connor wasn't in pain and Murphy breathed a quiet sigh of relief to see that his twin was finally resting.

He sat at the rickety table, pulling a black duffel bag, identical to the one Connor had been using earlier, onto its scratched surface. Inside the bag were two guns equipped with silencers, his holster, a black ski mask, a fatally sharp hunting knife, and four or five bricks of fifty-dollar bills; everything that made him a Saint.

But right now, he didn't want to be a Saint, he wanted simply to be Murphy MacManus.

More than anything, he wanted to separate the gun-toting vigilante from the man who could read an entire book in one sitting (one of the few things he had patience for) and who liked to cook, although if you asked his brother, getting Murphy anywhere near a stove was begging for disaster.

For just a little while, he wanted to forget that the bittersweet events of the last year had ever happened and pretend that he was just like every one else in the world.

The faint fragrance of Danae's perfume still lingered in Murphy's nose. Winsome, and warm like she was, the scent reminded him of vanilla and oranges mixed together. Closing his eyes, he pressed two fingers to his lips, smiling at the memory of her mouth against his.

It was funny, he mused, how it seemed that Danae had always been a part of his life. Over the course of the month they had known each other, an easy sort of friendship had formed between them. It was a bond built over vile coffee, card games and the helplessness that comes with waiting. It had been tested with hardships and strengthened with laughter.

He wasn't sure when he'd realized that he wanted to be more to her than just a friend, but the notion had launched him into a whirlwind of conflicting emotions.

He warred back and forth between his God-given calling, his loyalty to his faith and to his twin, and what his heart was whispering to him whenever Danae came around.

To be the vengeful, striking, hammer of God, or to be in love; the choice should have been an easy one.

It wasn't.

Their Da had once told them that the question they needed to ask themselves, was did they possess the constitution, and the depth of faith, to go as far as was needed?

Murphy had always known, without a doubt, that he was blessed with that faith and temperament. He had never wavered in the mission and had never once questioned that he was doing the right thing. When Rocco was killed, he had poured his grief and loss into retribution. He'd taken his friend's final words to heart, and since then every criminal he had sent to meet their maker was a tribute to Roc.

Then he'd nearly lost his brother.

Getting hurt was a risk they had both been willing to take. Scrapes and bruises healed, lacerations were cleaned and bandaged, even bullet gouges were sealed with the aid of a sizzling iron, but Connor had almost died. Murphy had been left helpless and alone and _Connor had almost died_.

Dragging the lifeless, bleeding body of the person he loved more than anything in the world through the ER doors had sent a spike of uncertainty stabbing through Murphy's previously ironclad convictions.

It had forced him to reevaluate what was truly important in his life, and suddenly, an existence revolving around the slaughter of wicked men wasn't as fulfilling as it used to be.

Burying his face in his hands, Murphy sighed into his palms. _It's too fuckin' early for this depressing shit._ He thought sullenly.

A warm hand mussed his hair, rousing him out of his dark thoughts. Lifting his face from his hands, he saw Connor, leaning awkwardly on a single crutch, a crooked smile curving his mouth.

"If yer face were any longer, ye'd be trippin' over it." He said, sympathetically, "Yer walk with Danae didn't go well?"

Despite Murphy's bleak mood, the thought of Danae made him smile. "No, the walk was . . . fine."

Connor stared at him for a moment, brow furrowing as he sussed out his brother's meaning, and then a wide grin spread over his face. "Ye finally fuckin' kissed her, didn't ye?"

Murphy rubbed the back of his neck, unable to stop his smile from turning into a soppy grin, his face growing hot under his brother's teasing.

"Aye." He said, running a hand through his hair.

"Well, halle-fuckin-lujah, it's about time!" Connor said with good-natured exasperation, clapping his twin on the back, "I thought it was gonna take Christ hisself to get the two o' ye together."

o()o

_**Another Author's Note: **Hey all of you out there in PCLand! You see this litte button? Yeah, this one . . . right . . .  
here. Give it a click and make my day._


	13. Chapter 13

o()o

_**Author's Note:** The scene with Da is dedicated to Just-a-Moment and penscratch, I hope you guys like it!_

o(13)o

The office was small but it would serve his purposes well enough.

With a smile, Smecker noted that the boxes containing his files had already arrived and were sitting on the scratched desk in the middle of the room.

That was one thing about Annie, she may be old enough to give dirt a run for its money, but she certainly got the job done.

Snapping open the locks on his briefcase, Smecker withdrew a tattered, well-read file and gave it a brief, almost loving, glance Neatly printed across the top, in Annie's meticulous handwriting, was the title, _MacManus, Connor/ Murphy_.

He didn't actually need to read the records, by now he had them mostly memorized. Inspecting them was more of a ritual than anything, his own small way of staying connected with the subjects housed within.

A knock at the door drew his attention away from the dossier, "Come in.," he said, closing the file and replacing it safely back in his case.

The door opened and Detective Croghan walked in, holding a cup of coffee. "I'm glad to see you're already getting settled in," he said, giving the office an appraising look.

"Is there something I can help you with, Detective?" Smecker asked, raising a curious eyebrow.

Croghan shook his head, "Actually, I'm here to help you. I've been working the Street Priest project for a couple of months now. The Chief assigned me and Townsend to work under you for the duration of your stay."

"Is that right?"

"Yeah, I've arranged for all my reports to be sent over to you by the end of the day."

Smecker sat down behind his desk and gestured for Croghan to have a seat as well. "Why don't you give me the abridged version?" he said, offering his sterling silver cigarette case toward the other man.

Croghan plucked a cigarette from the holder, placing it between his lips

"The wife'd kill me if she knew I was doing this." He said hesitating slightly before bending forward into the flame of Smecker's lighter and taking a deep drag. "I haven't had a cigarette for almost two years now."

Smecker withdrew a cigarette out of the case for himself and shut it with a snap. "That's a long time to go without a smoke."

"The things we do for love," said Croghan with a sigh. "Are you a married man, Agent?"

"No." he couldn't help an ironic smile from escaping, "I'm not."

"Ah, well, stay that way, you'll live longer. Trust me on this; my Marilyn has been trying to kill me with her pot roast for twenty-two years."

Chuckling, Smecker nodded. "I'll remember that." He took drag off of his cigarette, "So, tell me about this case."

"_Sacerdotes De la Calle_," the detective said wearily, "I've arrested a few peons on some minor charges, but the big dogs are impossible to find. They're like goddamned ghosts."

"How about what happened last month with the drug shipment?" he asked, earning another long-suffering sigh from the other man.

"What a mess that was, let me tell you. There were a dozen of those bastards, all shot to hell, in a warehouse on the south side of town. My theory is that a couple of these guys decided to dip into the shipment, thinking they'd make a little money on the side. Obviously their little scheme didn't go as planned because that place looked like a goddamned war zone."

Croghan paused, taking another puff of his cigarette "But here's the strange thing, CSI said that most of the blood they found matched the dead guys', but a handful of the spots had been doused with ammonia and they couldn't get a sample. What I want to know is how the hell does ammonia turn up in an abandoned warehouse?"

Shrugging, Smecker carefully avoided the detective's gaze, remembering all too well the frustration his first encounter with the Saints' blood had caused.

"It's a mystery to me," he lied.

"That makes two of us. Townsend threw out the idea that maybe one of the other Mafia factions around here decided to take matters into their own hands, eliminate the competition, so to speak. I think it's the only sound theory the bastard has ever had."

Smecker nodded, "It's possible. I'd like to see what you got from that crime scene, if you don't mind."

"No problem," stubbing out his cigarette, Croghan rose to his feet, "I can take you there now."

The evidence room was like every other that he had ever encountered, with shelves upon shelves of indiscriminate objects, all carefully bagged and labeled. The odor of dust and neglect almost was tangible.

Detective Croghan made his way to the back of the room, pulling a battered box from one of the top shelves and offering it to him.

"Here you go; this is everything we gathered from the drug bust."

Smecker took the box and opened it, frowning as he looked inside. "Not much in here, is there?"

"Well, there wasn't much at the scene."

"Where are the pennies?" He realized his mistake a moment too _late_. _Good job, wise guy, _he admonished himself, why_ not just wear a friggin' button announcing that you're working with the Saints?_

Detective Croghan frowned at him, "What?"

He recovered himself quickly, shaking his head, "I meant, what sort of drugs did you find?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary," Croghan shrugged dismissively, "mostly cocaine."

Nodding, Smecker replaced the lid of the box, and handed the dismal array of evidence back to Croghan. While there was nothing in there that would lay the blame on the MacManus brothers, there was nothing that helped him with the Street Priest case, either.

"And where are the drugs now?" he asked.

"They've already of been disposed of, the evidence custodian sent them to the kiln about a week ago."

"I see." Smecker frowned. "That's kind of quick to move drugs through the system isn't it?"

Croghan gave him a sharp look, "Well there was no reason to keep them; all of the dealers were dead at the scene and we can't press charges against a corpse."

"Hey, hey, I'm not trying to step on your toes here Detective," Said Smecker, holding up his hands, surprised at the sudden venom in the detective's voice. "I just want to make sure I have the facts straight."

A vein in Croghan's temple had started to bulge slightly. "How long have you been with the FBI, Agent Smecker?"

"Sixteen years. Why?"

"Because, Sonny," the detective said dangerously, "I've been a cop longer than you've been alive. And you'd better believe me when I tell you that, when I work a case, all the goddamn facts are already straight."

o()o

Connor leaned against the outside of the motel building, and took a meditative drag on his cigarette, thinking about his brother.

It wasn't as though Murphy had never had a girlfriend. Both twins had had more than their fair share of women both back home in Ireland, as well as there in the U.S., but this time seemed different.

Maybe it was because Danae complimented Murphy so well; her matter-of-fact common sense balanced his twin's impulsive nature perfectly. Or maybe it was the idea that she had already risked so much to keep the two of them safe, looking out for complete strangers just because it was 'right'. Maybe it was something else completely, Connor didn't know.

What he did know, was that as much as he wanted his brother to be happy, he was worried about how this new relationship would affect Murphy.

If these Street Priests were as dangerous as Smecker had said, they couldn't afford any distractions. What if Murphy got hurt because he head wasn't in the mission?

Another thought, nagging and almost more disturbing than the first, echoed in Connor's mind. What would happen when this was all finished? Murphy had mentioned quitting a couple of times now, what if this relationship with Danae made him decide to do just that?

What if his brother decided to abandon his calling, and left Connor on his own?

The idea sent a glimmer of alarm through him. Murphy would never do something like that, would he?

Shaken at the notion, Connor flicked away his cigarette, turning to go back inside. He needed guidance, and there was only one person he could think of that would understand what he was going through.

o()o

"Hello?"

"Da, it's Connor."

Connor couldn't help but smile at the coarse voice on the other end of the line. His father's voice was roughened by years of the cigars he favored and his accent was undiminished, still thick and lilting, even after so long away from his homeland.

"Its good ta hear from ye Lad! It's been too long since ye last called."

"Aye, well, things have been a bit . . . hectic . . . as of late."

"What's happened?" Da turned serious and Connor hesitated, wondering just how much to tell the older man.

"Connor Roarke MacManus," There was no ignoring that tone of voice; it was the voice that Connor was certain God bestowed on a person only when they became a parent. "What's happened?"

"We had a job go wrong." He said at last.

"Where's your brother?"

Connor blinked, taken aback at how frightened his normally stoic Da sounded suddenly.

"He's in the shower. We're both fine." He assured the older man quickly. "I got shot and had ta spend a little time in the hospital, but we're out now."

"And you're okay, Lad?"

"Aye, fine. Listen, Da, there's something I want ta ask ye."

"Ask away."

"Were ye doin' this sort of work when ye met Ma?"

There was the briefest of pauses, and Connor could almost feel his father's shock though the phone line. "I was, aye."

"How did ye choose?"

"Lad, leavin' you boys and your mother was the hardest thing I've ever done, and not a day goes by that I don't think o' the three of ye, but I was doin' the right thing, just as ye're doin' the right thing now." Another pause, "Why are ye asking me this?"

"Ye see, there's this girl that Murphy's gettin' attached ta. And I want to be happy for him, I really do, Da, but the more I think about it, the more it seems like it'll just be trouble in the end."

There was a soft chuckle on the other end of the line. "And ye don't want ta be the one left behind."

"Aye." Connor said softly, surprised at how quickly his Da had gotten to the heart of the matter.

"Lad, of all the people in the world, ye have ta trust your brother. Ye have ta have faith that, when the time comes, he'll do the right thing, whatever that may be. And ye have ta remember that when that time does come, ye'll have a choice to make as well."

Remaining silent, Connor wound the phone cord around his fingers, mulling over what his father had said.

Da was right, of course, what affected one would affect them both. If Murphy quit, would Connor abandon his calling as well? More importantly, could he continue his calling without his twin at his side?

"Whatever comes ta pass," Da continued, "remember that Murphy will always be there for ye, even if he leaves his calling, he'll never leave ye. That's what it means ta be brothers."

Connor nodded into the phone, feeling a little better, Saints or not, they would always be brothers, and nothing could change that. "Thanks Da."

"You're welcome. You boys take care of each other now."

"We will."

"And Connor?"

"Aye?"

"Call yer mother sometime soon, she's missing her boys."

Connor smiled, "Yes, Da."

o()o

Liam MacManus hung up the phone, smiling, pleased that his son had called him for advice. For a fleeting moment, he had gotten the chance to be _Da_ again.

Those moments were what kept him going, the fleeting instances where he could leave Il Duce behind and be the man he chose to forsake so long ago.

He had once thought that nothing could have been worse than leaving his beloved wife and infant sons. But when the Lord's work had taken him away from his boys a second time, he knew he'd been wrong.

He missed his sons with the same overpowering force that he felt for their mother. But sometimes sacrifices had to be made for the common good. He consoled himself with the knowledge that they were all only a phone-call away.

And now Murphy was in love. Liam chuckled at the thought. History certainly had a way of repeating itself.

As much as they would like to think otherwise, Connor and Murphy weren't unique. They weren't the first set of twins in the MacManus family, and they weren't the first men to be charged with God's will, intent on protecting the innocent.

No, both of those distinctions belonged to Liam and Sibeal.

Twice as fervent as their younger counterparts, and twice a brutal, Liam and Sibeal MacManus had taken up the Lord's work at the tender age of seventeen. They had forgone their schooling and the normal leisures that came with being young men in favor of the bloody task of weeding out the corrupt from the blameless.

For five years, the MacManus twins wreaked havoc upon the wicked all the way from Dublin to Waterford. They were meticulous and fierce, reveling in their holy mission. With each criminal they delivered to God, they grew more passionate about their calling.

Then everything had changed when Sibeal met Myrna.

The courtship was as whirlwind and chaotic as everything else in Sibeal's life and Liam was certain that he had never seen his brother so happy. Myrna was his perfect match and his twin knew how fortunate he was to have found her.

After time, the jobs became fewer and further in between, and while Sibeal seemed content to stay at home with his wife and soon-to-be child; Liam still felt the pull of the Lord's calling.

He didn't understand how his brother could choose a woman, even one like Myrna, over the calling of God. He felt it tugging at his soul constantly, trying to compel him to resume their work, but for the sake of family, he ignored the feeling.

It became easier to ignore once he met Annabelle. Her fiery temper and unorthodox love of practical jokes had caught his attention almost immediately, and before long, Liam had begun a romance of his own.

Never ceasing to be amazed by his new wife, and later on, the miracle of his twin sons, he had everything a man could want. But there were still times, in the middle of the night, that Liam could feel the Lord whispering to him, telling him that he still had important work to do.

Finally, the pull had become too strong and he had given in, leaving his wife, sons, and beloved brother behind to begin a new life in a strange new place.

It had been twenty-five years since they had seen each other, but Liam and Sibeal were still as close as they had ever been. They still spoke to each other frequently over the telephone and wrote letters back and forth almost every week. It was Sibeal alone that always knew where Liam could be found.

Sibeal had religiously sent his brother photos of Connor and Murphy every month until the boys had turned ten and suddenly realized that they hated having their picture taken. He also sent Liam pictures of Annabelle along with his letters detailing day-to-day life back in Arklow. Many times, it was those pictures, and nothing else, that had kept Liam going, a glimmer of light in his dark prison cell.

In return, Liam had clutched the receiver of the telephone in the prison's exercise yard and listened to Sibeal sob when Myrna had finally lost her battle with cancer and he had listened to his brother rejoice, yelling elatedly into the reciever, when his first grandson was born. Even when in prison, and seperated by thousands of miles, Liam had been there for Sibeal, because that's what it meant to be brothers.

o()o


	14. Chapter 14

o()o

_**Authors Note**: All foreign words in the first two scenes are Spanish, and they're all vulgar. I don't even want to post their meanings, they're so vulgar.  
**Nifty Fact for the Day: **_Deine mutter hat haarige arschbacken _is German for 'your mother has hairy arse-cheeks.' I am so using that in real life someday._

o(14)o

Gabrielle needed a fix.

She could tell by the way her eyes were beginning to tear up and anxious feeling that was swelling in the pit of her stomach.

Rubbing her hands over her arms, trying to stop the tickling sensation that was spreading over her skin, she used her hip to nudge the cleaning cart toward the next dingy motel room.

If she could just last long enough to finish up these rooms, she could get out of here, go see her dealer and everything would be okay. She just needed a little something to get her through the rest of the day.

Mechanically stripping the bed, Gabrielle let her mind wander while her body went through the motions. She was hoping that the work would distract her from her system's rebellion against the lack of drugs, but all she could think about was the sting of the needle and the burn of Absolution in her veins.

"It's the best fucking thing since peanut butter." Carlos had said with a knowing smile. "Even gives heroin a run for its money."

Gabrielle had been skeptical. After all, what could be better than heroin? But in the end, that smug _chupaverga_ had been right. The drug hit twice as hard and lasted twice as long as heroin could ever hope to. It had been worth every second she had spent on her knees earning it.

Now almost a month and a half later, heroin was the last thing on her mind. The only thing she wanted was Absolution.

Haphazardly tucking in the fresh sheets, she hoped that she'd have enough actual _money_ from tips to buy this fix. Her body still ached from what Carlos had made her do to earn the last one.

It didn't matter, though; she knew she'd to whatever he told her to, as long as she could tuck that little plastic bag in her pocket when she left.

Stopping to rub her arms again, the slight tickling starting to turn into an itchy, crawly feeling, Gabrielle tilted her head back and muttered a curse to the ceiling. Just a couple more rooms and she could get the hell out of here.

Just a little something to get her through the rest of the day.

The thought bounced around in her head with vengeful force, creating ripples within her like a rock thrown into still waters. Just a little something, just a little bit because life was so hard without it. Just a little fix to make the crawling anxious feeling go away, to give her a little peace, just a little fix to make her feel _normal._

Stopping in front of the last room, Gabrielle knocked on the door, cringing at the noise. "Housekeeping!" She called.

There was no answer, but there never was. She'd only seen the guys that were staying in the room a couple of times, they were cute enough, she supposed. Her sex drive had long ago left her; her only method of judging a guy now was by whether or not he looked like he would give her a hit.

But they were cute enough nevertheless; she had shared a cigarette with them once and was pleasantly surprised at how nice they'd been to her. Most people treated Gabrielle with a sort of holier-than-thou contempt, if they weren't to busy pretending she was invisible altogether. But these guys had chatted with her, laughing and joking, their lilting accents making her smile.

She found out that they were brothers, twins actually, and no, they didn't have any drugs on them, they didn't do that shit, but she could have another cigarette if she wanted.

The only odd thing was the way they both had stilled after she asked the lighter-haired one about his leg. A lightning fast glance had been exchanged between the two brothers before he had shrugged and said he had gotten hurt at work.

The darker haired man had mumbled something under his breath about getting a job where being shot wasn't a repercussion, earning a sharp look from his brother.

Gabrielle knew that she wasn't supposed to have heard the darker man's comment, but if there was one thing about her that wasn't shot to hell, it was her hearing. She'd let the comment slide, but hadn't forgotten it.

Now, standing outside of their room, ignoring the 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the door, she swiped her master keycard and stepped inside. The crawling feeling was getting worse, creeping up the back of her neck, and this time she scratched at it with her nails. Maybe these guys had some money stashed somewhere.

She would only take a little bit, just what she needed for a hit. They'd never miss it and she just needed a little something to get her through the day.

The room was messy, but she had seen worse. Taking a quick glance around the room, she took stock of everything there. Beer cans and cigarette packages littered the rickety table, the beds were unmade. Take-out containers and pizza boxes spilled out of the garbage and onto the floor. Between the beds, shoved partly under the grungy comforters were two black duffel bags.

_Bingo._ Gabrielle thought, stooping to tug one out from its hiding place. Unzipping the bag, she looked at the contents inside and gasped out a curse. These _malparidos _had a lot more than money stashed away.

Quickly she closed the bag and shoved it back under the bed, but not before stealing two fifty-dollar bills from a bundle. They'd never miss it, she told herself again, leaving the room, and if they did, they'd never know it was her.

Besides, it was just a little money, and it was for a good cause. She just needed a little something to get her through the rest of the day.

o()o

The apartment complex was a dump, but Gabrielle didn't care. She ignored the screaming children in the parking lot and the stench of urine in the hallways. She ignored the people that were crouched on the floor watching her with wary eyes. None of that mattered; only one thing mattered.

Absolution.

Reaching Carlos's apartment, she knocked on the scarred door, scratching her already reddened arms. The door opened a crack and Carlos's thin, greasy face peered out at her.

"What the fuck do you want?" he snapped.

"Fuck you, Carlos," she replied in Spanish, "you know what I want."

The door shut in her face and there was the sound of the security chain being opened. When it opened again, Carlos was smirking at her, his eyes hard and glittering.

"Wait here." He said as she stepped inside. "I got more important things than some druggie _chocha_ to do right now."

"But Carlos," Gabrielle could hear the whine in her voice, and she hated it, but there was no making it go away. Her complaints earned her a vicious backhand across the face.

"Shut your fucking mouth you filthy whore!" Carlos yelled also in their native Spanish, "I'll fucking get to you when I'm fucking good and ready."

Tears welling in her eyes, Gabrielle pressed a hand to her stinging cheek and nodded, keeping quiet.

"Fucking _chocha._" He muttered walking away from her.

Plopping down on a battered sofa, Gabrielle scratched the back of her shoulders and looked around the apartment. Like the complex, it was a shit-hole, filthy and neglected. Carlos's voice floated back from the other room, and Gabrielle cocked her head listening.

"No we didn't find them. We kicked down every fucking door in that place and didn't find anything but old geezers." He said, still speaking Spanish.

"For God's sake man, you're in my country now, so speak goddamned English." a different voice replied, "And what's this I hear about a girl?"

A pause. "There was this fucking bitch at the desk, she looked me right in the face and told me they weren't there." Carlos said, this time in English. "I caught up with the _pendeja_ in the parking lot and taught her a lesson about lying to her betters."

There was the sharp sound of flesh meeting flesh and Carlos yelped, "What the fuck was that for?"

"You worthless piece of shit! Don't you ever do something like that again! I sent your stupid ass to find the guys that took out the shipment, not to assault the goddamned secretaries."

"Come on, man," Carlos whined. "Do you know how many people get shot in this city in a day? How the fuck am I supposed to find two fuckin' vigilantes that nobody's ever fuckin seen? They had on masks and carried guns and that's all we know. It's fucking impossible."

"You were looking for someone that had been shot, definitely in the leg and probably once in the chest. It wasn't a difficult thing and yet, somehow, you managed to fuck it up."

Gabrielle frowned as she listened; something seemed familiar about this. Vigilantes . . . masks and guns . . . a gunshot wound in the leg . . . holy fucking shit.

She was off the tattered couch and in the next room before she could even complete the thought.

"What the fuck do you want, _chocha_?" Carlos said irritably.

"I know who you're talking about." She said, grinning. "I know where they are."

The other man grabbed her arm, his thick fingers digging painfully into the already sore flesh there. "You'd better tell us everything that you know, girl." He said dangerously.

"I will! I will." Gabrielle twisted in the man's grip and turned to look at Carlos, smiling nastily at him. "But I want something in return."

o()o

Danae shifted the grocery bag on her hip and smiled as she walked toward the motel. She had the day off and had promised the guys a meal that didn't come in a cardboard box.

She was early, she knew, but she was hoping she could entice the guys back to her place with the promise of cold beer and a good movie. She only had one day off this week and spending it alone at her place seemed like such a waste.

So, she had bought two twelve-packs of Guinness along with her groceries, and rented the newest action flick. She was sure that it wouldn't take much more than that to convince them.

Even with the knowledge of danger ever-present in the back of their minds, the three of them had fallen, once again, into a comfortable routine.

Through some unspoken agreement, she and Murphy hadn't mentioned their kiss since the morning it had happened. Danae knew it was for the best, she wasn't ready and apparently neither was he, but it still stung when she thought about it.

She shouldn't be complaining; she had two of the best friends she'd ever had in her life, and that should have been more than enough.

She shouldn't be distracted at work, lost in the memory of Murphy's mouth over hers as he ran his fingers over her face. She shouldn't be lying awake at night wishing he were there.

Most of all, she shouldn't be falling for a man whose sole purpose in life was executing criminals. Getting involved with something like that would cause nothing but heartache, and she didn't want that.

Shaking her head to dispel the thoughts, she took a deep breath and blew it out.

At least, she thought with a smile, Connor had said he would teach her to speak German.

He'd already taught her a couple of phrases, chuckling at her careful repetition of the words. They had gone over it again and again until he was satisfied with her pronunciation and accent.

"Good." He'd said, finally, and she had grinned at him.

"Now will you tell me what they mean?"

He had leaned over and whispered the translation in her ear, laughing at her mortified yelp.

"Connor! I can't believe you just taught me that! I'll never need to know that, I don't even think it's physically possible!"

But Connor had just laughed all the harder, pressing a hand into his side as Danae turned a deeper shade of red.

When Murphy had come back in from his smoke, he had found Connor wiping mirthful tears from his eyes, still chuckling, and Danae scowling good-naturedly, blushing to the roots of her hair.

"What's this?" he'd asked eyeing the both of them, sending Connor into a new fit of hilarity.

"I'm teachin' Danae here ta speak German."

"Yeah, right, real handy stuff you're teaching me." She had said indignantly and Murphy had grinned at her.

"Did he teach ye _Deine mutter hat haarige arschbacken_ yet?" he asked and Connor had choked on a laugh, his eyes wide.

"Ye can't fuckin' teach her that! Have some respect, man."

"I'm almost afraid to ask, but what does that mean?"

Murphy's answer had provoked yet another affronted cry.

Now, rounding the corner, Danae stopped dead at the sight of the motel, her smile fading as a whisper of disquiet coursed through her.

Something was wrong.

She didn't know how she knew. Nothing had changed since her last visit, nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but something wasn't right. It was a nice day out, yet suddenly the air seemed stifling and heavy. Heart jackhammering in her chest and fear creating a writhing pit in her belly, she staggered a single step backwards.

The grocery bag fell to the ground, unnoticed, spilling its contents across the pavement and Danae barely had time to shield her eyes before the building exploded.

o()o


	15. Chapter 15

o(15)o

She felt the explosion as much as she heard it, the thundering crash deafening her even as the percussion knocked the breath out of her lungs, throwing her onto the ground.

A flaming chunk of the MacManus brother's door as well as chunks of stone and glass hurled themselves through the air, pelting Danae, but she felt none of it, her body numbed by the sudden onslaught of adrenaline.

The world slowed down to nightmare speed as flames sprouted then grew, turning what had been Connor and Murphy's room into a blazing inferno. Danae lay on the ground, stunned for a moment, then scrabbled to her feet.

Conscious thought dissolved into panic as a single notion screamed over and over in her mind.

_Connor and Murphy are in there! _

Sprinting toward the burning building that had once been a motel, spurned on by nothing other than the instinctive need to get her friends out of the blaze, Danae heard a keening shriek going on and on in the background. Dimly, she realized that she was the one making the wretched noise.

A sudden arm clamped around her middle, jolting her to a unexpected stop. Danae thrashed savagely against it, shrieking her loss and dismay. She had to get to Connor and Murphy!

The grip tightened and she redoubled her effort to get loose. "Let me go!" she screamed, "Let me go! I have to get them out! _I have to get them out!_"

"Danae! No! " A familiar voice shouted, "what the fuck are ye doin'? Have ye lost yer fuckin' mind?"

"Connor!" She gasped, "Where's Murphy?"

Connor was forcibly dragging her away from the burning building and Danae, under the influence of adrenaline had no idea that she was still struggling against him.

"He's okay. He's over at the diner. Jesus Christ, woman, stop fighting me!"

She stilled, and he loosened his grip slightly.

"We're both here, Danae. We're fine. Murph and I are fine. Do ye understand me? We're here and we're fine."

She nodded and he gave her a gentle shake. "Tell me that you understand."

Gasping in a breath she nodded again. "I understand."

"All right." The arm around her waist disappeared and she whirled on Connor, looking him over.

"You're hurt!" she cried, eyes wide, "There's blood all over you!"

He glanced down at himself and drew in a sharp breath. "Christ, this isn't mine, it's yers."

Connor grabbed her hands and turned them over, revealing several shards of glass sticking out of red-lipped wounds across her arms. "Fuck."

"Did ye fuckin' see that? "Murphy shouted, running up to them, eyes wide "I can't believe that just fuckin' happened!"

"Murph." Connor said, drawing his brother's attention away from the flames consuming their motel room.

Murphy turned and saw Danae, bloody and disheveled, "Oh my God."

"She was about ta run inta the fuckin' fire."

"Christ," Murphy's eyes were impossibly wide "are ye fuckin' crazy?"

"What the fuck were ye thinking?" added Connor, his voice rising in a mixture of anger and worry.

Danae, however, was deaf to their questions. She stared at what remained of the motel building, her overtaxed mind repeating a single thing.

She'd almost lost them. If it hadn't been for a single twist of fate, they would have been in that room when it had exploded. Then she would have lost them both.

"Danae." Murphy cupped her elbow, carefully avoiding the wounds. "We have ta get out of here." When she didn't move, still transfixed by the inferno before her, he raised a hand under her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. "Come on, luv," he said softly, "we have ta go."

She nodded, forcing herself to focus on him. "My place." She said arduously

o()o

Danae sat backwards in one of her kitchen chairs, gingerly holding her arms out over the rungs in front of her, and eyeing the array of makeshift medical supplies that were spread over her table.

A bundle of her hand towels, a pair of pliers dredged up from only God knows where, a bottle of peroxide and a tiny first aid kit from under her kitchen sink.

_Probably more dust than actual supplies in that one_, she thought grimacing.

Murphy walked in from the bathroom, pulling a chair up and sitting so they were face to face. "Are ye ready?" he asked softly as he picked up the pliers.

She nodded, "You could have at least passed up my good towels though."

He snorted, shaking his head "Ye never stop bein' a smart ass, do ye?"

"No, I have to laugh, if I don't, I might just lose my mind completely." She glanced around the room, frowning, "Where's Connor?"

"He's cleaning our guns in the other room."

"You brought your guns?" she asked incredulously.

"Luv, now is not the time ta go all girlie on me."

She shook her head at his misunderstanding. "No, I mean you had them on you when you left the motel room?"

"Aye, better safe than sorry. Now, are ye quite done stallin' so we can get these cleaned out?"

She nodded extending her hand, trying to still the slight tremors running through it. "Do your worst, Doc."

Murphy wrapped his fingers around her wrist, holding her arm firmly in place, and Danae bit her lip, suddenly nervous. She jumped as he leaned over the first wound, jerking her hand away before he even had the chance to touch her.

"Christ!" he muttered, jumping a little himself.

"I'm sorry." She said, offering her hand to him a second time, "Let's try again."

Three tries later, Murphy sat the pliers down and sighed, exasperated. "Jesus, Danae, if ye don't fuckin' hold still we're never goin' ta get these cleaned up." He stopped, eyes narrowing. "Wait. C'mere."

Without waiting for her to respond, Murphy grabbed the seat of her chair and pulled, spinning her so she was facing away from him, and then scooting his own chair nearer.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Makin' it so ye can't pull away from me." His arm snaked around her, holding her steady, his breath tickling beside her ear. "All right, luv, let's get this over with."

Danae nodded, fiercely ignoring the sensation of his well-muscled chest against her back. She tried to recoil as he grasped a shard of glass between the pliers, but this time he held her hand tightly, and leaned against her, making it impossible for her to draw back.

She could feel his heart beating and the rhythm of his breath, as he held their bodies close together. His hand was warm around her wrist, and his cheek prickled against her neck. It was a shame sensations this erotic had to be wasted on something so painful, she thought with a sigh.

As he yanked the glass out of the wound, she bit out a curse and felt him chuckle behind her,

"I didn't know ye knew that word."

Three sizable chunks of glass, plus a few smaller splinters later, Danae's wounds were clean and bandaged. She sat quietly on the couch, wrapped in a soft blanket, eyes heavy and fatigued. Murphy looked in on her one last time, leaning in the doorway quietly. When he was certain that she was all right, he went to find his brother.

He found Connor in Danae's spare bedroom, sitting at a small desk in the corner.

"How we feelin'?" he asked seeing his brother hunched over their weapons, carefully inspecting them.

"I've been better. Help me up, now."

Connor slung an arm around his brother's neck, groaning as Murphy hauled him to his feet.

Looking at his twin, Murphy felt his eyes widen as he saw the blood staining Connor's jeans.

"Fuck! Yer fuckin' bleedin', man!"

Connor nodded, leaning heavily on his brother, "I think I tore a couple o' stitches back at the motel. Danae was fightin' like a demon to get in there." He winced and pressed a hand against the crimson that was seeping through his jeans. "Fuckin' crazy woman."

"We have ta see how bad it is. Can ye get yer cacks off?"

Connor nodded, using one hand to loosen his belt, the other still holding onto Murphy for support.

"Christ," Murphy breathed inspecting the wound "all of these fuckin' stitches are torn. Fuckin' wound's wide open."

Looking up and meeting his brother's gaze, the twins exchanged a grim look. They had to seal the wound and there was only one way they knew how to do it.

Sliding an arm around his brother's waist, Murphy half-supported and half-carried Connor into the kitchen, easing him into the same chair Danae had inhabited not twenty minutes ago.

_Paging Doctor fuckin' Murphy._ He thought unhappily, _Doctor fuckin' Murphy to the ER._

Connor groaned then leaned over his leg, picking the remaining black threads out of his injury.

Murphy turned away as his stomach lurched. Blood was just blood, he knew, but his twin's blood was different, more precious, and seeing it spilled bothered him.

"Danae," he called into the opposite room. "Do ye have an iron?"

"Of course I do. Why?"

"We're gonna have ta borrow it." Connor said, wincing as he tugged at a particularly stubborn thread. "Fuck."

Danae appeared in the doorway, frowning as she walked over to Murphy and Connor. "What on earth do you need my iron for . . .oh God." She froze at the sight of Connor's leg, the color draining from her face.

"What happened to you?"

"I tore a few stitches is all." Connor said.

"But how . . .oh . . .oh, no. . . .I did it. At the motel? I'm so sorry Connor."

"It'll be fine." Murphy said, wondering how his voice managed to be so steady when his gut was in knots. "It just needs ta be closed."

"With my _iron_?" Danae's voice began to rise, her eyes widening. "You need medical attention, not household appliances!"

"I can't go back ta the hospital, ye know that." Connor said, "This is the only way."

Danae sucked in a deep breath, looking up as though she could draw strength from the heavens. Murphy could almost see the wheels of her mind turning, coming to terms with what was about to happen, and felt a tremor of gratitude. If nothing else, the girl had grit.

When she met his gaze, her eyes were steady and focused. "What can I do to help?"

Murphy shared a glance with his brother, confused. They had never done this with just the two of them. First, there had been Rocco, and then there had been Da. But Danae wasn't strong enough to hold Connor . . .

"Just get the iron." His brother said, solving the dilemma. "We'll do the rest."

Murphy took the iron from Danae and offered her a small smile. "Thanks luv, now go inta the other room. This won't take long."

Lighting the gas burner of her stove, Murphy sat the clothes iron over the flame, grimacing as he did.

Fuck, he hated this. The reek and sizzle of cooking blood, the feel of muscles spasming under the iron's searing heat, the sound of agony muffled only by a dishrag, he loathed every last bit of it.

"You have all those stitches out yet?" he asked, swallowing another twinge of nausea.

Connor looked up at him; sweat beading along his upper lip and hairline, his normally golden skin ashen. "Aye."

Carefully checking the iron, he turned to his brother. "Next time ye get to fuckin' play the doctor, I fuckin' hate this shit."

"Agreed." Biting down on the twisted rag, Connor gripped Murphy's shoulders and nodded, "Do it."

_Forgive me, _Murphy thought, closing his eyes and pressing the iron down on his twin's thigh.

Connor jerked, his fingers digging into Murphy's shoulders. Murphy winced, but remained silent, his own leg twitching.

_Count to thirty, _he reminded himself as Connor bucked under him. _Count to thirty because if you don't do it right then you'll have to try again and nothing hurts worse than a burn over a burn. Keep going, ignore your brother's screams, and keep counting. We're almost there . . . almost there. Twenty-eight, twenty-nine . . .almost there. _

Murphy yanked the iron away from his twin, releasing a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding.

Slowly, the unyielding grip on his shoulders lessened and Connor's breathing evened out.

"Okay." He said, inspecting the wound with a trembling hand. "Ye did good."

Murphy nodded, setting the bloodied iron in the sink, trying to settle his stomach. He felt a pair of eyes watching him, and turned, frowning.

Danae was standing in the doorway, her eyes swallowing the rest of her face and Murphy knew what she was seeing.

Blood.

Sealing a wound was messy business and gore was everywhere, smearing the counters and spattering the floor, not to mention all over Connor and himself.

"Oh God." She whispered, backing away. "Oh. My. God."

"Danae," Murphy stopped, torn between comforting her and staying with is brother.

A pained grunt drew his attention and he saw Connor rising laboriously to his feet. "Go talk ta her." Connor said wincing. "I'm fine."

Murphy didn't move watching his twin, unwilling to leave him so soon after something so harrowing.

"Murph, go ta her. Make her understand."

Murphy reluctantly left the kitchen, with the help of a shove from his twin. He found Danae on her patio and fiddling handful of strange fat leaves, staring off into the distance.

"Are ye all right, luv?"

Avoiding his gaze, she nodded. "Don't worry about me. I'm not the one that just had my leg cauterized with a clothes iron."

"Connor's okay, Danae, we got his leg closed up just fine."

She wiped under her eyes, sniffling softly, "This isn't the first time you've done this, is it?"

"No."

"And it's been done to you?"

"Aye, tisn't fun, but it's necessary."

"And Connor's . . . okay?" her voice broke and she took another swipe at her cheeks.

He nodded. "The first night is bad, but after that it heals fairly quickly.

Danae looked at him, and, along with the tears, that keen, searching look was back in her eyes. "What about you, are you okay?"

"As long as my brother's all right, so am I." He chuckled, running a hand through his hair, "Though my shoulders are goin' ta be fierce sore tomorrow."

"Why?"

Murphy pulled up his shirtsleeve to reveal five angry red marks around his shoulder. Already bruising, they were perfect imprints of each of his twin's fingers.

Danae winced and turned her consideration back to the fat green leaves he held

"What're those?" he asked, nodding toward them.

She held one up for him to see. "Aloe Vera. It's good for treating burns. I thought it . . ." she looked down at them, sighing, "I thought it might help."

Murphy smiled at her, "Always lookin' out fer us aren't ye?"

"Somebody has to." Danae shivered slightly, pulling the blanket more snugly around her. "Bad day." She murmured, "Bad, bad day."

"I know. Arra it could have been worse."

"I know. It's just . . ." she sighed, "I'd like to step out of the Twilight Zone and back into my life now please.

"Ye're okay, luv." He said, laughing in earnest, "Don't ye worry."

She shrugged, "I guess, if nothing else, at least I dropped the beer off before coming to see you guys."

Murphy turned to look at her a smile forming on his lips just as Connor's voice came floating outside.

"Did somebody say somethin' about beer?"


	16. Chapter 16

o()o

_**Author's Note:** Thanks to MKOLO for letting me borrow her Karate Kid idea. _

o(16)o

Connor leaned back into the couch, his leg propped up on a well-used coffee table, and took a gratifying swallow of Guinness.

Across the room, Murphy knelt in front of a bookcase, perusing Danae's selection of movies.

"How about 'Clear and Present Danger'?" he asked and Connor shook his head.

"Too long."

They had offered Danae first run at the shower, and she had taken it gratefully. Every once in a while he could catch bits and pieces of the melody she was humming and smiled at the variety of songs she knew. So far, she had gone through Moonlight Sonata, the Macarena, and Anesthesia Pulling Teeth. Right now, he was pretty sure that she was humming that Tubthumper song he liked.

"Suicide Kings?" Murphy inquired.

"Too many twists."

Connor's leg was throbbing, but the pain wasn't as bad as it normally was. The Aloe that Danae had smeared across his thigh, and the cold rag covering it, had taken a lot of the fire out of the wound. A couple more beers, enough time for the aspirin to kick in, and he would be feeling grand.

"She's got Karate Kid!" Murphy exclaimed happily holding up the case.

"Absolutely not."

"C'mon!" he protested, "I love this movie."

"I'm not listenin' ta your fuckin' 'Wax on, Wax off' shit for the next week. No."

His twin gave an offended snort and turned back to the movies, settling on the floor comfortably.

Letting his head fall back, Connor reflected on the day's events. Someone had found them; there was no doubt about that. And the bastards had found them with a vengeance.

He knew they _should_ call Smecker, and he _wanted_ to take up his guns, go out and deliver these fuckers, but right now, but what the three of them _needed_ most was a chance to regroup and recuperate. It did no good to make plans when he could barely stand without the pain making his head swim.

"She's got Platoon," Murphy said in astonishment, "I can't fuckin' believe that she fuckin' owns Platoon. What kind of girl owns a movie like that?"

Connor shook his head, chuckling at his twin, "Maybe she fancies that fella who plays Sergeant Grodin."

"Not fuckin' likely." His brother muttered, and Connor took another drink of his beer.

Tomorrow they would make plans; he and Murphy would sit down and figure out just exactly what they were going to do, because running wasn't an option anymore. They would definitely call Smecker and find out what he knew, they would buy supplies, and then they would hunt the Street Priests down and reap motherfucking justice like the fuckers had never seen before.

"I've got it!" Said Murphy triumphantly, holding up another movie case.

"What now?"

" Indiana Jones."

"Very nice." Connor nodded his approval; you couldn't go wrong with someone that could handle a whip like he could. It was almost as handy as the rope Charlie Bronson used in his movies.

Danae came out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, her hair wet around her shoulders.

"Don't look!" She exclaimed, rushing through the living room and into the bedroom beyond. "Don't look! Don't Look!"

Connor chuckled at the way his twin's eyes widened as she hurried by. Murphy sat up a little straighter, his jaw dropping slightly.

"She said not ta look, ye dope. Ye might want ta put yer eyes back in your fuckin' head."

"Shut it," his brother said, flushing, "or I'm takin' yer fuckin' turn for the shower."

Laughing, Connor downed the last of his beer and struggled to his feet. "Not a chance."

"Clean towels are in the cabinet left of the sink!" Danae called from the bedroom, toweling the water from her hair, and wishing ardently that she'd invested in a bathrobe during her last shopping trip.

_Nothing quite like traipsing around in a bath towel in front of your house-guests. _She thought wryly, although the expression on Murphy's face had almost been worth it.

"If you both want to throw your clothes into the hall, I can run them through the wash"

"Just want to see us without our clothes on, don't ye?" Came Murphy's teasing voice from outside her door and Danae raised an eyebrow.

"Yes." She called back, "It has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that you're filthy and you stink, it's all about naked MacManus men."

"I figured as much." Murphy retorted and she just barely heard him add "Smartass," under his breath

Tugging on a comfortable pair of lounge pants and a shirt, she flopped across her bed, staring at the ceiling. The cuts on her arms hurt, and her entire world was in shambles, but for some bizarre reason, she was in a remarkably good mood.

Connor and Murphy's being there took away some of the loneliness her apartment too often seemed to be steeped in. Having them nearby made her place a little warmer and a little more welcoming.

The notion surprised her, she'd had no idea how much she missed interacting with other people since moving to the midnight shift. She wasn't much of an extrovert by nature, preferring a good book or movie to a night out on the town, but surely, she hadn't been _that _isolated these past few years.

Had she?

Sliding off the bed, Danae pushed open the door and almost tripped over Murphy as she stepped out of the bedroom. He was lying on the floor, hands behind his head, eyes closed, his face relaxed and peaceful.

Common sense told her not to get involved, that he was a killer and a criminal; it told her that getting mixed up with him would cause more trouble that he was worth.

She took a moment to really look at him. Even dirty and spattered with blood he was still attractive, not conventionally handsome, but intriguing in a way that was all his own. He was unique in every sense of the word, never ceasing to amaze her with some new facet of his character.

Staring down at him, Danae realized that her common sense was wrong. Everything that had happened so far, whatever came to pass; having Murphy MacManus in her life was worth every bit of it.

As if hearing her thoughts, he opened one eye and smirked at her. "See somethin' ye like, luv?"

_Busted!_ Danae thought, unable to stop the heat that flooded her cheeks, or the embarrassed grin that split her face.

"I was wondering where you got your shirt."

He shook his head, smiling, "Smartass."

She nodded, trying to fight the sappy grin, and failing.

"C'mere I've somethin' I want to tell ye."

Danae leaned nearer to him, and his warm hands closed around her upper arms, carefully avoiding the cuts that marred her flesh.

Sweeping out a leg, he knocked her feet out from under her, twisting so she landed with a slight jolt, one knee on either side of his hips.

Chuckling at the shocked expression on her face, he released her arms, sliding his hands down to her waist, fingers caressing the bare skin under her shirt.

"I want ta tell ye that I love yer smile."

The line was corny, and coming from anyone else it would have warranted an eye-roll or caustic retort, but leaving Murphy's lips it took on a whole new implication.

He was so sincere, looking at her with that smile, the one that made her heart speed up, still lightly brushing his thumbs against the skin of her hips, and Danae realized that she was holding her breath again.

She wanted him to kiss her, to feel his hands whispering over her skin and to feel the heat of his skin under her own hands. She wanted him to make the horror of the day disappear, to wrap her in his arms and make her forget that he had come terrifyingly close to dying, make her forget how close she'd come to losing him. She wanted him to surround her, flooding her senses with smell and taste and touch.

She wanted him.

Murphy's smile faded away, his eyes darkening and he shifted slightly, his hips rubbing under her. Sliding both hands further under her shirt, he traced senseless designs across her back and ribs with his fingertips.

Danae bowed her head, letting the sensation swallow her, splaying a hand across his chest, she gently outlined the ridge of his collarbone as her other hand wandered behind her, tickling across Murphy's thighs.

He drew in a sharp breath at her touch and wrapped his arms around her, pulling their bodies together and capturing her mouth in a searing kiss.

Through the sensation of Danae's body pressed against him, her mouth exploring his, Murphy felt his twin's presence. Breaking the kiss he looked up, just in time to see Connor turn away, hobbling toward the kitchen. Danae followed his gaze and sat back, still straddling him, and smoothed her hair, the mood effectively broken.

_Fuckin' Connor! _He thought angrily, but his aggravation quickly turned to concern as he saw his twin's shadow pause, swaying slightly, and place a hand on the wall for support.

He made a move to slide out from under Danae, but she was already getting to her feet, moving towards where Connor was leaning, and he felt an odd pang of that she cared about his brother so much, some strange mix of jealousy and appreciation.

"Are you okay?" She asked reaching out to Connor and Murphy relaxed hearing his twin's low laugh.

"Aye, I just have ta go a little slower so I don't tear the burn." A pause, "I don't suppose ye have any more o' those aloe leaves, do ye?"

"I have a whole plant, outside. I'll go grab a few more for you." Danae said, and Murphy noticed that she didn't meet his brother's eyes, instead looking fixedly at the floor of the hallway.

Although the fact that Connor was wearing nothing but a towel probably had something to do with that.

Murphy couldn't resist giving her backside a swift smack as she brushed by, laughing at her surprised 'eeep!'.

She turned and shot him a narrow look, her cheeks reddening, making him laugh even harder.

"You'll get yours." She promised, and he sincerely hoped so.

Slipping back through the door, Danae offered a few more of the fat green leaves to Connor, still avoiding his eyes.

"I guess that means I'm next for the shower." Murphy said, stepping into the bathroom and closing the door behind him. "Ye'd better not have used all the fuckin' hot water, Connor." He said, stripping off his clothes and tossing them out into the hall.

His brother chuckled from the other side of the door, "Shut it, and have your shower."

Danae gathered both brothers' clothes into a bundle in her arms, "I'll get these washing." She said softly.

Connor reached out and touched her elbow gently. "It looks like things were gettin' a bit serious in there."

She looked away from him, a blush staining her cheeks once again.

"Ye don't have ta be embarrassed about it, Danae." He said. "I knew that ye two had feelin's for one another before ye did. I just want to make sure you understand what ye're getting inta here."

"Vigilantes, guns, and exploding buildings?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I mean my brother. Murphy doesn't fall for someone very often, but when he does, he falls hard. I don't want to see him, or you for that matter, gettin' hurt."

Danae looked at him, her eyes solemn and Connor was taken aback at how wan she appeared. "I would never hurt him." She said softly.

"I know ye wouldn't on purpose. Just remember that Murph loves like he does everything else, with his heart and soul on the line. Promise me that ye'll be careful, all right?"

Giving him one last keen look, her eyes searching his, Danae finally turned away, securing the pile of bloody clothing more firmly on her hip. "I will, thanks, Connor."

"Hey, wait!" He said, reaching out, and she paused. Connor fumbled through the bundle of clothing until he found a pair of jeans. Making sure they were his, he dipped into one of the pockets and pulled out a worn scrap of paper.

"Can't be losing this." He said, smiling.

"What is it?"

Connor smoothed the piece of paper out, revealing a hastily scribbled phone number, and grinned seeing that it was still legible.

"It's Remi's phone number."

o()o


	17. Chapter 17

o()o

_**Author's Note:** Well, here's our main bad guy, I hope you guys like him as much as I do. We'll be getting back to the boys next chapter, I promise.  
**Nifty fact for the day:** _Sacerdotes de la Calle_ means Street Preists._ Toto _means fool._

o(17)o

Smecker had a headache. It had started about an hour ago, at the base of his skull, and had steadily gotten worse until he was certain that his eyeballs would explode from the pressure building behind them.

He'd been at the office all night long, fueled by coffee, cigarettes, and Puccini, poring over the files that Annie had sent, as well as Croghan's crime reports. Box upon box of dossiers, newspaper clippings and police reports surrounded him.

And now, as the sun rose, and people began to filter into the building, he wasn't any closer to the Street Priests than he had been when he had started. All of the files seemed to be pointing him in different directions.

Tilting his head back, Smecker exhaled a stream of smoke toward the ceiling, trying to roll some of the tension from his neck and shoulders. All round him, he could hear snippets of conversation from people slowly funneling into the precinct. Already it was shaping up to be a busy day.

" . . .anything you say can and will be used against you . . ."

"So I say to her, I say listen up bitch . . ."

" . . . if you'll just step this way, please . . ."

"Tell unit 52-15 to 10-22 that call. Turns out . . ."

" . . . near the Mericana Motel. It doesn't look like she's been dead for very long."

Smecker opened his eyes, sitting up at the mention of the motel where the MacManus brothers were staying.

"Shit, was she in the explosion?"

_Explosion?_

Headache forgotten, Smecker was out of his seat and advancing on the officers outside his door before he realized that he was moving.

"What explosion?" He demanded.

The two officers that had been talking shot him a cagey look.

"You didn't hear?" one asked, "Someone blew up a fucking motel last night. Injured almost a dozen people; killed at least two more that we know of."

"Jesus, do you have a list of the victim's names?"

The officer, whose badge read Humes, shrugged, "The M.E. has one, I'm sure."

The other officer scoffed at his partner and turned to Smecker sullenly, "What's it matter to you,_ Agent_? This case doesn't have anything to do with you."

A corner of Smecker's mouth quirked, "Listen to me, asshole, everything in this Mickey Mouse precinct has to do with me until I say otherwise."

"Funny," the officer said, nastily, "You don't like the Captain to me."

"That's because in this division, I'm God and if I want to use your friggin' badge to wipe my ass, I will.

Ignoring the man's outraged spluttering, turning away from both of the officers and Smecker made his way towards the Medical Examiner's office. He needed answers, and those pricks were about as useless as a screen door in a friggin' submarine.

The M.E.'s office was at the opposite end of the building. Pushing open the door, he was greeted with a sudden chill, the sharp tang of disinfectant and polished chrome as far as the eye could see.

Despite his best efforts, a shudder raced up Smecker's spine. It wasn't the corpses. He'd seen plenty of bodies in his lifetime and they had ceased to bother him after his first dozen or so. But there was something about the autopsy area, cool and impersonal, that made his skin crawl.

The M.E. was a tall man, or would have been if he weren't permanently stooped, his back bowed from years hunched over the autopsy table. Hearing aids graced both ears and a microphone array hung around his neck.

"Can I help you?" he called to Smecker, never looking up from the cadaver he was examining.

"Paul Smecker, F. B. I. I need to know if you have a list of victims from this morning's explosion."

The M.E. nodded, slowly, frowning at the body in the table. "Of course I do. It's on top of John Doe over there, sitting next to my breakfast."

Working hard to suppress another shudder, Smecker strode to the opposite side of the room and snatched the list off of the shrouded corpse. Scanning the typed names, he breathed an inaudible sigh of relief to see that all the victims had already been identified and that neither of the MacManus brothers were listed.

Carefully replacing the file, and pointedly ignoring the half-eaten egg sandwich that was resting on the corpse's chest, Smecker inclined his head toward the cadaver on the table.

"Is this the girl from the Mericana?"

The M.E. nodded, "Gabrielle Prado," He said, circling the chrome table," identified by her mother, 26 year old female, Hispanic, worked as a maid at the Mericana Inn. Cause of death was a fracture to the frontal bone, probably blunt force trauma. It shoved fragments of her skull into her brain; she also has several other injuries consistent with being beaten to death."

"So she wasn't involved in the explosion?"

The M.E. shook his head, "No, all the burns are post-mortem. See here?" he pointed to the girl's shoulder. "There's no fluid in these blisters, there's also no blood around these deeper burns, she was already dead when the bomb went off"

Smecker nodded, looking at the girl. She might have been pretty, once, but now her face had the sunken, pinched, look that only years of drug use could procure. The pristine white sheet covering her from the chest down left her arms exposed, displaying a multitude track marks surrounded by a gruesome rainbow of bruises.

"What was her poison of choice?"

"I don't know yet, we're still waiting on the toxicology report to . . ." the M.E. paused as an antiquated printer on the far side of the room clattered to life. "Well never mind, there it is now." The man crossed the room, grabbing his sandwich on the way and Smecker tried not to cringe as he took a hearty bite, reading over the newly printed document.

The M.E. frowned at the paper in his hands, "Well, that's unusual," he said, his wrinkled brow creasing further.

"What is?" asked Smecker.

"She tested positive for opiates, but her levels are too high to indicate any of the drugs that I normally see coming through here, almost three times as high as normal heroin even."

"So it's a purer form of heroin, then?"

"No, I don't think so. I'll have to run a few more tests on her blood and vitreous fluid before I make any sound theories, but in 34 years, I've never seen anything like this on a tox report before. I think we're looking at something entirely new here."

"A new drug?" Smecker said, the wheels of his mind turning furiously, and the M.E. nodded.

"Man, with an opiate content this high, heroin addicts would be practically knocking down your door for a fix. You could take the drug world by storm; it'd be a done deal."

_They were small time until a couple of years ago. I haven't found any record of what changed yet, but this petty little gang suddenly became very, very important in the drug world_.

The thought reverberated throughout Smecker and a puzzle piece clicked into place. Was something like this that had made the Street Priests so important? Was this their bargaining chip to get into the U.S.?

"Is there any way you can get me those tests results when they come back?" he asked.

"Sure. I'll send them to your desk ASAP."

o()o

Seated in a comfortable leather chair, surrounded by a beautiful rosewood desk, Arturo Mendoza studied the tattoos on his wrists thoughtfully, ignoring the greasy man that was stammering nervously in front of him.

_Redima con Sangre. _

All of the _Sacerdotes De la Calle_ had the words permanently embedded into their flesh, a symbol of their devotion to the gang. But to him the words bore a personal significance, making them a little more precious and a little more powerful than most people found them.

Those three words signified everything that he had done throughout his lifetime, his rise from nothingness to power. How he liberated himself from poverty through spilling the blood of others and through the spilling of his own blood.

Through ruthless violence and a razor sharp business sense, he had made his way to the top of the _Sacerdotes De la Calle_, and he had turned them into something much more than your common street gang. He had offered them Absolution.

Arturo was proud of what he had done. The Street Priests lorded over many of the Colombian cities now, having uprooted some of the most well established cartels in the country, and were now trying to get their first tentative foothold in the United States. He was certain it was only a matter of time before he proved to the Russian and Italian Mafias that he was not a man to be ignored.

The events of the last month had been . . . unfortunate, certainly, but from what the _tonto _in front of him was babbling on about, they had found the men that had caused him so much trouble and the problem had been resolved.

And that idea made Arturo's day.

He didn't know who the men were that had ruined his first big shipment. When he had gone to the storehouse the morning after the shipment he had been dismayed to find it crawling with police, a slaughterhouse inside. Only one of his men had survived the attack only to die hours later.

But not before telling his story to the police.

His _acquaintance_ on the force had salvaged what drugs he could, but it wasn't much, not nearly enough to accomplish the task that Arturo had labored so lovingly to bring about. So Arturo had returned home a fraction of the Absolution he had started with, and a vendetta.

But now, the men had been found and dealt with, sent to whatever god they worshipped with a little help from a hotel maid and a pipe bomb, and Arturo was free to try again. After having almost a month to recover from the attack, he was more than ready.

"Carlos," he said, his native Spanish rolling off of his tongue like a lullaby "What in the name of the Virgin _María _are you still going on about?"

Carlos stilled, his dark rodent eyes widening, "I was talking about the druggie _chocha_ that found those guys."

"What about her?"

"She's dead."

Arturo cocked an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Si, she disrespected me in my own home, right in front of that _poli._" Carlos gave a smile that was more a sneer. "I taught her that she can't disrespect a _Sacerdote_ like that and get away with it."

"You killed her?" Arturo frowned, his voice still deceptively gentle. "Not in front of our officer friend, I hope."

"Fuck no, _por supuesto no_, of course not!" The greasy man seemed genuinely mortified by the idea.

"That's very good to hear. Still you did kill a paying customer, a woman no less."

Despite his apparent fear, Carlos still managed to look defiant, meeting Arturo's eyes for the first time since he had entered the room. "So?"

Arturo shook his head, smiling sadly. "My boy, to be respected in this game, we must conduct ourselves in a manner befitting businessmen. If we don't earn respect we are nothing but pawns."

Fast as lightning, he rose from the comfortable leather chair, drawing a gun from seemingly nowhere and aiming with lethal accuracy. Carlos was dead by way of a bullet in his brain before he even had the chance to crumple to the floor.

_Though,_ Arturo reflected, straightening his suit and stepping over the dead man at his feet, _every good chess game needs it pawns._

o()o


	18. Chapter 18

o()o

_**Author's Note:** Well, I'm having my birthday celebration tonight and since I can't get cupcakes out there to all of you in PCLand, I hope this will work as a substitute. Next chapter should be up in a week or so._

o(18)o

"No, ye eejit, ye have ta wait until the water boils first." Connor said as his brother unceremoniously dumped a handful of pasta into the pot of water that was sitting on Danae's stove.

Murphy turned to rummage through a drawer; searching for something only he was tuned in to. "It'll boil soon enough."

They had called Smecker first thing that morning, filling him in on the past days' happenings and, in return, had received the worst news the agent could have possibly delivered.

No news at all.

Smecker had been working on the case for days now and had gotten no further on the Street Priests.

By the tone of his voice, Connor could tell that Smecker was having as much trouble with the notion as he and Murphy were. The call had ended with the agent promising to contact them as soon as he found something substantial.

All that was left to do now was wait.

"I can't believe I'm even lettin' ye fuckin' do this." Said Connor, "Do ye remember the last time ye tried ta make spaghetti? It took us a fuckin' hour to chip the shite out o' the pan."

For lack of anything better to do, they had dutifully cleaned every trace of blood from Danae's kitchen. Once the floors, stove, counters, and sink were spotless, Murphy had rested his hands on his hips and, much to Connor's dismay, announced that he was going to cook dinner.

All it had taken was for his twin to step into the kitchen and all the cleanliness had been undone, splattered with enough spaghetti sauce to rival the gore they had just scrubbed away. If you asked Connor, the only thing worse then letting his brother watch Karate Kid, was to let him anywhere near a kitchen.

Right now, his twin was happily using a meat cleaver to maim a luckless tomato. "How's yer leg?" he asked in between haphazard slices.

Connor shrugged, shifting a bit, testing his weight on the wound. The pain still took him by surprise, sharp and scorching, but it no longer made his head swim and that was a good sign.

"S'alright." He said, "It doesn't hurt as bad as the last time we did this."

"Good ta hear." Murphy replied, turning his attention back to the tomato just in time to avoid cutting off his fingertips. "I figure as soon as ye're up ta it we'll go out and get some supplies."

Connor nodded, "Let's go tomorrow then. I don't want to waste any more time than we have ta." He blew out a breath and gave an amused chuckle "I never thought I'd be so glad that Da made us split up that money."

Murphy turned to look at him, a smile curving his lips, "Aye, I know. Who would have guessed?"

The twins had balked when their father first instructed them to separate the money they had acquired during their first real job. Connor and Murphy both wanted to keep all the cash on hand; 'in case of an emergency' they had protested. But the old man had squashed their excuses with a firm cuff to the back of each of his sons' head.

"Listen ta yer fuckin' Da." He'd said gruffly, "I know what I'm talkin' about here."

They had finally conceded, complaining all the while about their father's mistrust and how they were adults who could do as they pleased, and split the money into five separate bank accounts, each requiring both brothers' signatures to withdraw the money inside.

Now, with only one change of clothes each, and four guns to their name, Connor couldn't help but breathe a small sigh of relief that they had listened to their Da, and he knew his twin felt the same way.

"See if there's any ketchup in the 'fridge, will ye?" said Murphy.

"Ye don't fuckin' need ketchup, Murph, ye're makin' spaghetti."

"I want ta add it ta the sauce." His twin objected, sweeping the remains of the ill-fated tomato into what little bit of spaghetti sauce he had actually managed to land in the pot. "It'll add flavor."

Connor grimaced, "That's disgustin'! Ye can't fuckin' add ketchup ta spaghetti sauce."

"Why not? It's all made out of fuckin' tomatoes, so what's the difference?"

"It's fuckin' _ketchup_, ye retard."

"Fine." Murphy rolled his eyes and heaved a long-suffering sigh, "I'll fuckin' add some pepper to it for seasoning, then."

"I'm not fuckin' eatin' that shit if you put ketchup in it," said Connor, shaking his head adamantly, "No fuckin' way."

The remark earned him a sharp crack on the head; he turned and saw his twin wielding a wooden spoon, grinning evilly.

Touching the back of his head, Connor brought away sauce covered fingers. "Ye fuck!"

Reaching for the nearest weapon, which happened to be a handful of dry pasta, he grabbed at his twin, pulling Murphy across the kitchen counter by his shirt collar, laughing. The spaghetti connected with his brother's forehead, exploding in a thousand different directions as it did, clattering off the walls and floor in a shower of brittle confetti.

Playfully swatting at Connor with the spoon, Murphy grappled for the upper hand, calling his twin every detestable name he could think of in between gasps of laughter. In a matter of minutes, Connor had slid his twin off of the counter and they had both tumbled into a swearing, knotted heap on the floor.

o()o

Danae adjusted the headphones more securely over her ears and smiled as the next song started. She hadn't been for a walk in days and it felt extraordinarily good to be out.

It was funny, she mused as she walked, making her way back home, how much her life had changed over the past six weeks. It had been a rollercoaster ride of exhilarating highs and stomach clenching drops. She had hurt and worried for the ones she cared about, while managing to find an odd sense of peace amidst the chaos that was suddenly surrounding her. Somewhere along the way, she had found someone to fill a void in her life that she hadn't even been aware existed, an impromptu family to call her own.

Somewhere along the way, she had fallen in love.

A smiled tugged at the corners of her mouth at the idea. Sensible, levelheaded Danae was finally in love, with one half of an Irish, vigilante, crime-fighting duo, no less.

Sometimes truth really was stranger than fiction.

She couldn't pinpoint exactly when she had realized that she first felt so deeply for Murphy, although sometimes it seemed like she always had. It seemed as though from the first time they had met, in a dark emergency room, in the middle of the night, she had loved him and had wanted to keep him safe.

_Keep him safe?_ She thought, her good mood slipping slightly, and _how exactly are you planning on accomplishing that little feat?_

If nothing else, she had learned that keeping either MacManus brother, or both of them for that matter, out of harm's way was an impossible task at best. Danger followed them wherever they went. It was a part of what they did, and more than that, it was a part of who they _were_.

Vigilantes, killers, criminals.

Shaking herself from such disheartening thoughts, she stepped up onto her patio and unlocked the door, pausing as she heard a muffled thud followed by a curse.

Heart suddenly jackhammering in her chest, Danae crept into the house, wishing for a weapon of some sort. The only thing she could find that was even vaguely suitable was her cordless telephone.

Well, it was better than nothing.

How could they have found her place already? She wondered over the blood rushing in her ears. How on earth did they know?

Moving through the house, clutching the telephone receiver in her hand, Danae stopped, readying herself to do something potentially stupid. The sounds of a struggle grew louder; she could hear both brothers swearing heatedly and . . . laughing?

Peeking around the kitchen door jam, she saw a tangle of limbs that could only belong to Connor and Murphy sprawling across the tiled floor. Murphy was walloping Connor with a wooden spoon and Connor was clutching what looked like a handful of uncooked spaghetti, beating his brother with it in lieu of his fist.

Both brothers were so caught up in their scuffle they had failed to notice her standing there.

The place looked like a war zone and smelled like an Italian restaurant, something unidentifiable was smoking on the stove, there was pasta sauce covering every available surface and it looked like the entire contents of her refrigerator had been taken out and scattered over the countertops.

_Must have been an interesting evening,_ she thought, amused.

Lowering her makeshift weapon, she watched the brothers as they fought, never ceasing to be amazed at the variety of languages they used to insult each other, idly wondering just how many they both spoke. Some of the strange words were spit out in exasperation, while others ended in breathless laughter, making her smile.

If you couldn't tell they were brothers simply by being in their company, there was no mistaking it watching them fight.

Even when pummeling the crap out of each other, they had a synchronicity Danae was certain only came with knowing someone better than they knew themselves. It was though they were two halves of the same soul, able to anticipate exactly what the other would do and when. They knew each other so thoroughly, so intimately that there would never be a question about the other's thoughts or actions.

Their movements, although opposing, were perfectly timed, carefully aimed to hurt without causing any actual injury. Their insults, while undoubtedly as vulgar as they were creative, were tossed good-naturedly back and forth.

The tussle came to an abrupt halt as Connor flipped Murphy to the floor, pinning his shoulders, not more than two feet from her. Seeing her standing there, Murphy pushed his brother's hands away, still laughing and turned his head to look at her fully.

"'Llo, Danae. How was yer walk?"

Connor followed his brother's line of sight, and mirrored his grin. "Good walk?" he echoed.

Chuckling, she nodded, "Very good walk, thanks."

Pushing Connor away, Murphy got to his feet, and then extended a hand toward his brother. Connor gripped the offered hand and allowed his twin to pull him to his feet. The lighter haired man grimaced as he stood, but only leaned on Murphy for a moment before regaining his balance.

They exchanged a swift, fond glance, and even as an outsider, Danae could tell it's meaning.

_Thanks._

She couldn't help a smile from escaping as she watched them. Their affection for one another was like sunlight, absolute in its purity and intensity. It flowed easily back and forth between them and Danae swore that if she got close enough, that she could feel the warmth of it, compassionate and comforting. It was like being bathed in light.

"I hope yer hungry, I'm making spaghetti." Murphy said, and she raised an eyebrow.

"Is that what's burning on the stove?"

"Fuck!" Turning off the burner, Murphy peered into the pot and grimaced, "all the fuckin' water's boiled out! The noodles are all cooked ta the bottom!"

He turned the pot upside down to demonstrate, and Connor chuckled when a single strand of crunchy-looking spaghetti fell out, followed by a wisp of pungent smoke.

"Looks like we'll be orderin' pizza." He said.

Using the same wooden spoon he had previously been clobbering his twin with, Murphy took a couple of unsuccessful stabs at the pot, sighing when the pasta remained firmly stuck to the bottom.

"It would have been fine if ye hadn't fuckin' distracted me." He said, giving Connor a meaningful look.

"Oh, no. Ye can't blame this on me, boyo. I can't fuckin' help that ye're as useless as tits on a bull in the kitchen."

"I am not!"

"Murph," Connor said in a pseudo-sympathetic voice "Look at the fuckin' spaghetti, man. It speaks for itself."

Murphy frowned, "We still have the garlic bread." he said at the exact moment the smoke alarm announced its displeasure with his culinary skills.

Opening the oven, Danae coughed, waving billowing smoke out of the way and extracted a blackened loaf of what may have once been garlic bread. A thin bubbly layer of something covered the charred loaf and shot Murphy a wry look.

"You left it in the plastic?" she said, fighting the laughter that was welling up inside of her.

Connor rolled his eyes and sighed. "Give us the phone, Danae. I'll take care of dinner tonight."

o()o


	19. Chapter 19

o(19)o

Smecker greeted the day with a café latte in hand and a file in front of him. Walking into his office, he was so engrossed in the report he was reading that he almost missed the paper that was sitting on his desk.

Picking up the paper, a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he realized that was the toxicology report on that housekeeper, fresh from the medical examiner's office. Written across the top in slightly shaky, spiky handwriting was a message from the M.E. requesting that Smecker see him as soon as possible. Giving in to the smile, Smecker took a fortifying swallow of his coffee and left his office, heading to the other end of the building.

"Agent Smecker," The M.E. motioned him over as soon as he walked through the heavy chrome door. "I assume you got my message. Come here and have a look at this."

"What am I looking at?" Smecker said, obeying.

"_This_," the M.E. gestured toward the paper in Smecker's hand, "is the biggest thing to hit the U.S. since methamphetamine. The drug in Gabrielle Prado's system was completely new. We're talking fresh off of the boat new, here, Agent."

Smecker nodded, "So what is it?"

"It's similar to heroin, but it's been _redesigned_, if you will, to be better than heroin on its best day. The lab is still trying to figure out what process they used, but rest assured that this isn't your garden-variety drug, it produces a longer high and less lethargy, the downside is that it's much more addictive and can have some potentially, ah, damaging side effects."

"Oh?" Smecker raised his eyebrows and the M.E. made a face.

"Let's just say there are a few rats in the lab that will never be the same. I thought all of this would be of particular interest to you because of this fine gentleman that came to me in the middle of last night."

The M.E. gestured over to one of the autopsy tables and Smecker followed, taking another drink of his latte, fighting the shudder that was trying to crawl up his spine as the older man peeled back the white sheet.

"Meet Carlos Machado, male, Hispanic, 29, identified by his police record. Cause of death was a .22 right between the eyes." The M.E. gently lifted the corpse's head and gave it a little jiggle. "The neat thing about .22s is that they have enough power to enter the head, but not exit. So, the bullet bounces around inside the skull and basically turns the brain into a Slurpee. It's going to be a mess when I pop the top off of this kid, let me tell you."

Suppressing a grimace, Smecker nodded, "So what's this have to do with me?"

"Well, CSI found a couple small packages of our mystery drug hidden in this kid's shoes, which was interesting enough, but I thought that this was a little more your style."

The M.E. turned over the corpse's hands revealing tattooed words inscribed across both of the wrists. "The boys upstairs said that you were on the lookout for tattoos similar to this one."

"_Redima con Sangre_" Smecker read quietly, a little thrill racing through his veins, "This tattoo is the identifying mark of the gang I'm investigating."

Finally, he was getting somewhere! After days of wading through stagnant paperwork, rereading the same stale reports until he was too tired to see straight, a lead had fallen right in his lap.

He friggin' loved it when that happened.

"Looking at this kid, I figure he was one of their mid-level dealers, a little more prominent than the average scuzzballs I get in here," Said the M.E., eyeing the corpse thoughtfully.

Smecker stared at the tattoos, eyes narrowed. He'd been right, this drug was the Street Priests' ticket into the U.S., and with something like this new drug, they could easily knock the Russians and the Italians to the side.

Something that the local Mafiosos wouldn't be too pleased with, he was sure.

"Where did they find the body?" he asked.

"Some warehouse on the east side, seems like there was some hullabaloo there several weeks ago too, a bunch of guys with tattoos just like this got gunned down. It backed me up for days, I've never seen such a mess."

"The warehouse on Marshall Street?"

"That's the one."

Smecker frowned, that was where the MacManuses had broken up the drug bust, but Croghan had said that the P.D. had recovered nothing but cocaine. If the Street Priests had something as potent as this new drug under their belt, why in the hell were they trafficking cocaine?

Opening a one of the chrome doors, the M.E. pulled out a disturbing array of knives and saws, setting them on the table with a metallic clatter.

"I was going to wait for Croghan and Warner to do this, they usually prefer to be here during the autopsy. But since you're here, I suppose you can clear the body and I can go ahead and get started."

"Croghan and who?" Smecker asked, frowning.

"Warner." The M.E. replied, and then shook his head, sighing. "I mean Townsend."

"Who's Warner?"

Glenn Warner was Croghan's old partner, he was killed about two months ago, and Townsend took his place." He chuckled a little, "Sometimes it's hard for an old fogey like me to keep things straight."

Smecker turned away as the M.E. picked up a particularly wicked-looking saw and tried to ignore the sound of metal meeting flesh and after a moment, bone.

"You'll let me know if you find anything else?" he said, swallowing, suppressing a shiver of disgust. There was little else in the world that bothered him quite like an autopsy.

"Sure." The M.E. said, his words followed almost immediately by a wet splat. "Agent, would you do me a favor before you go?"

"What do you need?"

"Open that cold chamber over there and grab me my coffee. I'd get it myself, but my hands are a little full at the moment."

"You have to be friggin' kidding me."

"No, it should be just the right temperature now."

o()o

Connor hung up the telephone and grinned at his brother, snapping the last piece of his gun together with a satisfying click. "Smecker's got us a fuckin' lead."

The words sounded just as good the second time they were spoken and Connor's grin widened. The idea of sitting around, useless, while the Street Priests were out doing evil had festered under Connor's skin like an infection. But now, after an endless week of waiting, they were finally going to reap motherfucking justice on these bastards.

He couldn't wait.

Murphy looked up from his own gun, currently in pieces on the table, and raised his eyebrows quizzically, the corner of his mouth quirking. "What did he find?"

"He said that they found one o' the Street Priests this morning in the warehouse where we took out that drug deal. The bastard was shot in the head and had some sort of new drug on him, something big."

Murphy frowned, efficiently reassembling his weapon, his hands moving with unconscious ease, "So where do we come inta play in all this?"

"Smecker said that he traced the fellow back to a smaller group of the Street Priests that are working around here. He said he's pretty sure that he can find out where they're located."

"Fuckin' brilliant." Murphy grinned as he turned his attention back to the gun, carefully checking the sights, "I say we go in and kill those fuckers as soon as yer able."

Connor nodded, checking his own sights, finding them perfect as they always were. "By the end o' the week then, we'll need a little time ta prepare."

"That soon?" Murphy gave his brother a surprised look, bringing his thumb to his mouth, "Are ye sure ye're up to it?"

"I am, aye. That fuckin' aloe Danae keeps givin' me is helpin' a lot; even the blisters are dryin' out already."

"Girl knows her medicine." Murphy's tone was a little too casual and Connor shot him an amused glance.

"She does at that." He said, smiling at the flush that was creeping out of his brother's collar. "Listen, Smecker said he'd meet us here tomorrow afternoon, so the way I see it, there's only one thing left that we can do tonight."

"And what's that?" said Murphy, shooting his brother an amused glance.

"Find a fuckin' pub and have a fuckin' drink." Connor said. It had been an age since he had been out to a good bar and nothing sounded better right now, than getting royally buckled with his brother.

"Amen ta that." Murphy said, chuckling, "Let's get the fuck out o' here."

o()o

Murphy grinned at his brother through the smoke filled bar, leaning over the pool table.

Connor grinned back at him, "Are ye going ta break or fuckin' make love ta the table?" He asked, taking a swallow of beer.

"Fuck you." Carefully aiming, Murphy sent the cue ball careening across the felt of the table, demolishing the neat triangle of balls. It looked like he was stripes, again.

They had been there for a couple of hours already, doing shots of whiskey in between pints of beer and games of pool. Murphy's head was pleasantly fuzzy, and he was quick to laugh at his brother's jokes.

"Say, Murph?" Connor said, walking around the table to take his shot, "Why doesn't Smoky the Bear have any children?"

"Why not?" he asked, chuckling, his twin was anything if not predictable.

"Well, because every time his wife gets hot, he fuckin' hits her over the head with a shovel!"

Laughing despite himself, Murphy shook his head. "Christ, Conn, could yer jokes get any worse?"

"Aye, they could. They could be Danae's fuckin' jokes."

He stopped, seriously considering his brother's words. "Yer right, Jesus her jokes are fuckin' nawful. They're so fuckin' nawful that I need another shot just fer thinkin' about them."

Laughing, Connor set down his pool stick. "You have yer turn, I'll go get us our shots."

Nodding, Murphy watched his brother weave a path across the bar, noting with a smile how much easier Connor's gait was becoming. The painful limp that had marked his twin's movements for almost two months was barely discernible now. Connor had been through a lot, but he was going to come through it just fine.

The thought infused Murphy with warmth. For the first time in a long time, he felt like everything was going to be okay.

A kick at his shoe drew his attention away from the pool table, turning he saw Connor holding two shots and two more beer mugs full of dark Guinness. "Irish Car Bomb?" his brother inquired, and Murphy grinned at him, taking a mug and a shot glass.

"Best drink in the fuckin' world." He dropped the shot into his mug and raised it in salute. "Sláinte."

"Sláinte." Connor mirrored the action and together they finished their drinks in several of long swallows.

Setting the now empty mug on the table, Murphy swayed a little on his feet and grinned at his brother.

"Your shot."

Last call found both brothers slumped over the bar, nursing their final beer in amiable silence.

"Okay, guys," the bartender said, leaning down to look them both in the face, "it's time to go."

Connor flashed the girl a winning smile "C'mon now darlin'," he slurred, "We're just gettin' started here."

The bartender chuckled a little and raised her eyebrows. "Well, you don't have to go home, but you can't stay here. Should I call you guys a cab?"

Pointing at Murphy, Connor grinned, "Ye're a fuckin' cab!" he cried, hooting with laughter.

Murphy shook his head, taking one last drag off of his cigarette before stubbing it out. "Nah, s'not necessary, luv. We'll make it just fine."

Giving his twin a slap on the shoulder, he rose precariously to his feet and paused until he regained what might have passed for balance. "C'mon, Conn, let's get home."

Slinging an arm around Murphy's neck, Connor managed to knock them both off balance as he slid off the barstool.

"Ye fuckin' eejit." Murphy muttered, staggering under the weight of his twin as well as the alcohol he had consumed. "Stand on yer own fuckin' feet."

"I fuckin' am." Connor protested, the alcohol slurring his words and thickening his accent. Idly, Murphy wondered if he was as difficult to understand.

"S_iúil leat_." Come on, he said to his twin, smiling at Connor's surprised glance at hearing their native Gaelic. "Let's go home."

Connor's surprise quickly disappeared, replaced by a lecherous grin. "Home to yer wan?" he asked also in Gaelic, chuckling.

Murphy rolled his eyes, swaying unsteadily as he did. "Knock that shit off, ye know good and well I'm too fuckin' drunk."

Stumbling, Connor snickered. "Since when have ye _ever_ been too fuck to drunk? Fuck. To drunking fuck ta fuck? Fuck! To fucking drunk ta . . ."

"Christ, Connor!!" Murphy interrupted the increasingly jumbled flow of words, "Ye've made yer fuckin' point. Can we fuckin' go now?"

o()o

Danae looked up from her book as Connor and Murphy burst through her front door.

"So he picks up the fly and gives it a fierce shake yelling 'Spit it out! Spit it out ye bastard!'" Connor said as he collapsed onto the couch, laughing uproariously.

Murphy, laughing just as hard as his twin, leaned against the doorframe, wiping mirthful tears from his eyes.

"Good night out?" she asked, and Murphy replied in a language she didn't understand. The words rolled off of his tongue, velvety and rich, if slightly slurred, and she raised an eyebrow.

"You want to try that again in English?"

Murphy frowned at her for a moment then chuckled. "Sorry. 'T'was a good night out, aye." He said, and Connor gave an inelegant snort, cuddling up with one of her throw pillows, slouching further into the couch.

"Very good night out." He echoed, "Murph here had ta water yer tree a on the way in, though.

Danae looked at Murphy. "You did?" she asked, embarrassed.

"Aye," Murphy said, oblivious to her discomfiture, "but I wasn't alone in the crime."

Connor gave his brother a meaningful look then looked down at his feet. "Gotta get me boots off," he mumbled. Leaning over, he fiddled clumsily with his bootlaces, then his hands stilled and after a moment quiet snores resonated from between his knees.

Murphy looked at his brother and chuckled. "Fuckin' Connor." he slurred good-naturedly.

Carefully ambling over and squatting down in front of his sleeping twin, Murphy took a boot onto his lap. He gave it a quick tug and the boot came free, whizzing across the room, the momentum of it knocking the already unsteady Murphy flat on his back.

"Ow, fuck." He said, and Danae bit her lips to keep from laughing. "Lend us a hand up would ye, luv?"

Shaking her head, she slid off the couch to sit next to him, untying Connor's other boot and easing it off his foot.

"I think you're safer on the floor." She said, a few giggles finally escaping.

Propping himself up on his elbows, Murphy looked at her, chewing on his lip. "Has anyone ever told ye how beautiful ye are?"

Danae shot him a sideways look, amused. "Has anyone ever told you how drunk you are?"

"I'm serious."

"So am I. Come on, let's get some aspirin in you and get you to bed."

"Will ye come with me?" his voice had gotten lower, his words a little clearer.

Danae chanced a full look at him and saw that his expression had become serious and evocative.

_Bedroom eyes_, she thought, _he has the most amazing bedroom eyes I've ever seen. _

"Come on, Murph." She said quietly, fighting the emotions that he was stirring up. "Help me get Connor into bed."

o()o


	20. Chapter 20

o()o

_**Author's Note:** My muse is back! My muse is back! This makes me very, very happy. Thanks to MKOLO and Aranatta for their enduring patience and brainstorming at all hours of the night, you guys are the best. Thanks also to everyone who has read and reviewed so far, I appreciate it!_

o(20)o

Murphy started the day with sound of his brother's not-so-quiet snores and the hangover he had known that he would have when he went to bed the night before.

Reaching up he nudged his twin roughly, "Turn over, Connor, ye sound like a fuckin' chainsaw."

Connor muttered something inaudible and mashed his face into the pillow. After a blissful moment of silence, his snores started again, louder than before.

Aggravated, Murphy debated giving his brother another shove but decided against the idea, it probably wouldn't do any good. Besides, he was already awake.

Making a disgruntled noise at being robbed of his sleep, Murphy reached for his shirt and tugged it on, wincing as the motion made his head throb.

Glancing at the clock, he saw that it was well into the morning, almost 10:00. He also spied a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin sitting on the nightstand, left by Danae no doubt.

Smart girl.

With one last uttered curse toward his slumbering twin, Murphy got to his feet, tossed back a couple aspirin with a swallow of water, and left the bedroom, meandering noiselessly through the house.

He found Danae in the kitchen, engrossed in her book, absently scrambling eggs. He watched her sway, shifting her weight from foot to foot, curiously silent as she read.

"Good book?" he asked, grinning when she jumped. He was growing enormously fond that 'Eeep!' noise that she made whenever he startled her.

"I can't put it down." She confirmed.

"So I've noticed. What is it anyway?"

Holding the book up so he could see the cover, she grinned over the top of it. "Into Thin Air."

He returned her grin, "Ah, that is a good read."

"You've read it?" she asked, raising an eyebrow and Murphy nodded, it was actually one of his favorites. His own copy had been dog-eared and stained, regrettably left behind at his and Connor's old place after the Russians had come after them.

"I have, aye."

"Good to know." She said, turning her attention to the eggs on the stove, "How are you feeling?"

He couldn't quite suppress a groan at the question. "Like hell."

"Do you want breakfast?"

Murphy grimaced, his stomach objecting to the notion of food. "Not before a smoke and a shower. Thanks though, luv."

Danae shrugged and reopened her book. "Suit yourself."

Grinning, he gave her backside a quick smack before grabbing his jacket. "I always do."

Danae shot him a sideways look. "Also good to know," She said with a wry smile.

After so many years of enduring the hit and miss plumbing in their old apartment, it still seemed like a luxury to him to be able to stand under the shower and not break out in gooseflesh. Bowing his head, Murphy let the water sluice over his neck and back, beating over his knotted muscles and easing his alcohol-induced headache.

He noticed that Danae had supplied a new bar of soap, saving him from the undesirable fate of using her scented body-wash, and smiled shaking his head. He could get used to having someone to take care of him the way that she did.

Grabbing the bar, he scrubbed away the layer of smoke and sweat that only a night of drinking could produce. By the time he rinsed the last of the soap from his skin, Murphy was feeling much, much better.

Turning off the shower and wrapping a towel securely around his waist, he stepped out of the bathroom and saw Danae standing in the front doorway, body tense, clutching a large flashlight behind her back, her fingers nervously squeezing the handle. At first, he didn't understand, what she was doing, and then he realized that the flashlight was a weapon.

_They've found us._

The thought jolted Murphy into motion, moving soundlessly, he grabbed his gun from the kitchen counter and pressed himself against the wall, ready to take the first available shot.

"I'm sorry, there's nobody here by that name." Danae's voice was deceptively cool and professional, but her grip on the flashlight tightened. She shifted slightly obscuring his line of sight.

_Move,_ he willed her silently, _Come on luv; get the fuck out of the way._

He couldn't hear the reply, but Danae stiffened and shook her head. "I don't know where you got that information, but it's wrong, I'm sorry." She tried to shut the door, but a hand pushed it back open. "Hey!"

Deciding that subtlety was no longer the best option, Murphy cocked his gun, moving to stand behind Danae, aiming over her shoulder.

"Don't fuckin' move." He said dangerously to the person outside the doorway, "Or I . . . Smecker?"

For a moment, he could only blink in confusion, surprised at the stare down going on between the Agent and Danae. Both of them had their eyes narrowed, glaring at each other obstinately. Then Danae's eyes widened.

"Smecker?" she said quietly, glancing up at him. "As in _Agent_ Smecker? _Your_ Agent Smecker?"

"Aye." He said lowering his gun with a relieved chuckle. "Sorry, luv, we should have warned ye. I guess we sort of forgot."

She nodded, stepping back, giving him a reproachful look. "I guess you did. I apologize Agent, please come in."

Murphy turned away, setting his gun on the coffee table, when he turned back, he noticed that Danae was looking at him and remembered that he was wearing nothing but a bathtowel, which had begun to slip down his hips.

He couldn't help a vain smirk from escaping as he watched her eyes rake over his body, libertine thoughts blatant across her features.

The smirk was quick to die on his lips, however, as he noticed a similar expression on Smecker's face.

"I'm goin' ta get dressed and wake Connor." He said, hiking the towel back up, suddenly desperate to leave the room.

o()o

Connor slumped as far into the couch as he could, rubbing at the sharp pain behind his eyes and wishing that the aspirin would hurry the fuck up and kick in.

The only problem with Friday night, he reflected wearily, was Saturday morning.

Smecker was talking about the Street Priests and Connor nodded in all the right places, listening halfheartedly, and knew that his twin was doing the same. None of the things Smecker was telling them really mattered. In Connor's mind, there were only two things that mattered:

Where they could find the bastards, and how soon they could go in and kill them all.

Danae had disappeared into the kitchen as soon as they had all sat down, but now she reappeared holding three cups of coffee in slightly shaky hands.

She offered Murphy a wan smile. And his twin placed a hand against the small of her back, a comforting gesture that both boys had adopted from their Ma, and took the cups from her, distributing them around the table.

"Thanks Danae." He said softly, and she nodded, retreating into the kitchen.

Connor looked into his cup dubiously, and then exchanged a glance Murphy, debating on whether he could handle both the vile liquid and a hangover at once.

Smecker picked up his cup, taking a drink and Connor had to give the agent credit, he barely made a face before continuing with his information talking about something regarding the local police and some new drug.

Unsurprisingly, Murphy's patience with Smecker's detailed account was the first to break.

He had been thrumming wordlessly next to his brother, worrying his thumbnail between his teeth as he listened to the detective talk, and Connor recognized the signs of an impending Murphy-Meltdown. It was only a matter of time before his twin . . .

"Smecker," Murphy said, bringing both hands down on the table with a loud rap that made Connor flinch, "Why the fuck are ye tellin' us all o' this? We don't need ta fuckin' know this shit; all we need ta know is where these fuckers are and when they'll be there next."

Connor shot his brother a glance that was part exasperation and part relief. Leave it to Murphy to cut right to the chase.

Smecker arched an eyebrow and took another drink of his coffee, grimacing as he did.

"Okay, wise guy," he said, "here's the abridged version for you. There's a group of these guys doing business just outside of town, pedaling this new drug they have and trying to reestablish what they lost after their first encounter with you guys. There's a decent sized shipment of this drug coming in on Thursday, and as far as I know a handful of the bigger players will also be there. It's an opportune time to hit these assholes where it'll hurt them the most."

Connor nodded and Murphy smirked at the agent as he reached for a pack of cigarettes.

"Perfect."

o()o

Danae sat at the kitchen table, an untouched cup of coffee sitting before her, fighting the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.

With each word that Agent Smecker had spoken, the clenching, acidic sensation had worsened, and by the time the conversation had ended, she was certain that she was either going to burst into tears or throw up.

She told herself that she had always known that this day would come. This was what Connor and Murphy did; it was part of who they were. It was dangerous and violent and she had known that from the moment they had come through the doors of the ER, beaten and bleeding.

She couldn't be surprised at their casual attitude toward the entire ordeal, the ease in which they talked of executing complete strangers, or how calmly they planned a venture that could very well get them killed in turn. She couldn't be disturbed by the steely coolness in their eyes, a dispassionate precision that was nothing like the men she had grown to love. She couldn't be upset, because she had known that this day would eventually come.

The only thing she _could_ do was try to be grateful that it hadn't come sooner.

For a fleeting moment, she hated Smecker. She needed someone to blame and the stylishly attired F.B.I. agent was the most likely victim. Danae hated him for knocking on her door with this information, for sending her world, once again, into upheaval and for providing the information that could get her friends killed.

She despised him for turning the MacManus brothers back into the Saints.

As quickly as it had struck, the feeling faded, leaving her empty inside. Connor and Murphy would have found the Street Priests with or without Agent Smecker's help; it would have only been a matter of time before they did. No matter what happened, the MacManus brothers' first priority was their slanted sense of justice, believing anything else could ever take precedence was naive.

Murphy walked into the kitchen, glancing at her as he dumped the dregs of his coffee down the sink and rinsing the cup.

"Are ye all right, luv?" he asked quietly, pulling a chair next to her and sitting down.

Danae pressed her lips together, looking away from him. "Fine." She said.

"Are ye sure about that? Ye don't look fine."

"I said, I'm fine."

Murphy frowned at her, and she could almost feel him trying to figure out what was wrong, but she couldn't explain it to him right now.

How could she make him understand what she was feeling when she didn't understand it completely herself?

His warm hand covered hers and she pulled it away, being so close to him was too much right now, she was overwhelmed enough as it was.

"Danae?" said Murphy, looking at her, his blue eyes wide and wounded

"I'm sorry, Murphy. I can't right now," she stopped, swallowing, fighting the tears that were threatening to fall. "I just can't."

Grabbing her coffee cup she got to her feet, dumping the now cold liquid into the sink.

"I have to get out of here for a while," she muttered, reaching for her jacket, "I'm going to lose my mind if I don't."

She barely made it to the front door before Murphy's fingers closed around her wrist. "Danae, what the fuck?"

"Please, Murphy, let me go. I'll be back in a little while."

"Not until ye fuckin' tell me what the fuck is wrong with ye."

"Murphy, please." She protested.

"No, not until ye fuckin' talk ta me."

He was backing her into a corner and she despised the feeling, warmth gathered in her eyes and she blinked it away angrily. She couldn't deal with this right now. She needed to be alone; to think and to come to terms with what was about to ensue, but Murphy wasn't about to let that happen.

"Don't you have a massacre to plan?" she gritted out, surprised at the venom in her voice.

Had she really just spoken those spiteful words? She must have been because she heard Murphy's sharp intake of breath and the hand around her wrist loosened.

"Suit yer-fuckin-self." He said icily, "I don't give a fuck anyway."

Already caught up in her own tumultuous emotions, Murphy's outburst only added fuel to the fire, and suddenly Danae was furious.

"I know you don't give a fuck!" she cried, pushing away from him. "You don't give a fuck about anything but your perverted sense of justice and whatever bloodshed it may bring. You're going straight to the men that almost killed your brother and are still trying to kill you, and for what reason?"

This time, Murphy let her go, somehow managing to look both enraged and stricken at the same time, and Danae was two blocks away from the apartment before she realized that she was sobbing.


	21. Chapter 21

o()o

_**Author's Note:** Speical Thanks to MKOLO for her immense patience with me and my chapter avalance, you're the best sweetie!  
**Nifty fact for the day:** If you're wasting him in Ireland, you're foostering or on the doss. _

o(21)o

Connor meticulously inspected his new gun, enjoying its weight and the feel of the cold, oiled metal in his hands as he screwed a silencer onto the barrel.

A visit to their friendly neighborhood arms dealer had provided the twins with new gear to replace what they had lost in the motel explosion, plenty of ammunition, a few extra perks, and of course, no questions asked.

Just as it had the first time, walking into the weapon filled sanctuary had sent a thrill of exhilaration racing through Connor's body, making his fingertips prickle.

_Here,_ he had thought _was a place where justice was a tangible thing. _

He could smell it in the gun oil and hear it in the satisfying click of a hammer being cocked. He could see it molded into steel, lead, and brass. Here, he could reach out, grip justice in his hand, pull the trigger, and watch the wicked fall. Here, justice was his for the taking.

It felt good to have their equipment back; it gave Connor a sense of efficacy, something he had been seriously lacking in the past couple of months. He had been vulnerable and powerless, forced to wait until the time was right. But now they had all the right tools; they had the time and the place, and they had the perfect chance to reap a little vengeance.

He was certain that killing these motherfuckers was going to be one of the most gratifying things he'd ever done.

Connor watched as his brother examined his own spread of weapons, which were splayed across the kitchen table. Murphy's expression was the closest to calm it had been in days, and Connor knew his twin was feeling the same way about their mission.

Digging through his duffel bag, he retrieved the flashbang grenade the dealer had thrown in as a 'fringe benefit' and hefted it thoughtfully, tracing the holes in the metal casing with his thumb.

"I can't fuckin' wait to try this out." Connor said, and Murphy snorted, shaking his head.

"I don't even know why the fuck ye have that fuckin' thing." He said, "We're never goin' ta use it."

"Of course we will." Connor protested. "It'll give us the advantage if there are a lot of those fellows around on Thursday."

"How? By making a huge noise and fuckin' light that'll attract everybody for six fuckin' blocks when we use it?"

"I don't think it works like that."

"Connor, it's a fuckin' _grenade_. How are we supposed ta be inconspicuous chuckin' around fuckin' grenades?"

"Quit yer fuckin' complainin, it'll be fine'." He held up the device with a flourish. "Besides, it's just too fuckin' cool not ta use."

Murphy rolled his eyes. "Oh, aye, it's cool all right. What the fuck's next, Agent 86, a fuckin' shoe phone?"

"I'm tellin' ye it's . . ." Connor stopped, seeing that his twin had gone still, thumb pressed against his teeth. Following Murphy's line of sight, he saw Danae standing in the doorway, her eyes wide, arms wrapped around her body.

"Sorry," she whispered, hurrying across the room, not meeting either brother's eyes as she grabbed her jacket and slipped out the front door. "Sorry."

Frowning, Connor watched Danae's retreating form, and then shot his twin a glance before turning his attention back to the flashbang grenade, tossing it idly from hand to hand.

Murphy sighed and shook his head, answering his brother's unasked question, "She still hasn't fuckin' said a word to me, every time I try ta talk ta her she practically fuckin' runs the other way, it's driving me fuckin' insane."

"She'll come around," Connor said, reaching to give his twin a sympathetic pat on the arm.

"Not fuckin' soon enough."

"Just give her a little time, Murph, it's a lot for the girl ta deal with."

While his twin had never been one for actual apologies, anybody that had ever argued with him, (and Connor had argued with him more than anybody) knew that Murphy couldn't stand to be pissed off for more than fifteen minutes. Even worse was having someone angry with him. Unlike Connor, who took his time getting angry and could hold a grudge for weeks, Murphy's temper was quick to rise and even quicker to burn out, leaving him with nothing more than the driving need to make things right again.

When they were younger and had their squabbles, as brothers are prone to do, the quickest way to get Murphy to concede to whatever Connor wanted, was to give his twin the silent treatment.

The longest Murphy had ever lasted was half an hour. He had thrummed quietly for the entire thirty minutes, as though he could somehow channel his need to speak into frenetic movement. But as Connor knew it would, the silence got the better of his twin; Murphy had come up to him, sighing resignedly and admitting defeat with a smack to the back of his brother's head and a pack of cigarettes tossed on the table in front of him.

Connor had grinned, taking the pack and ruffling his twin's hair as he got up to have a smoke, signifying that the fight was over, not missing Murphy's audible sigh of relief as he did.

Only a select few people: a select few being Connor, knew that Murphy would do just about anything to make things normal and 'right' again after an argument. In a moment of drunken admission, he had once confided in Connor that the awkward frustration left behind after a dispute sometimes physically made him sick.

The silent treatments had stopped soon after that.

Murphy uttered a curse under his breath, still staring at the closed door, worrying his thumbnail between his teeth and Connor realized that two days of not talking to Danae, of knowing that something was wrong and not being able to fix it, was probably the closest thing to torture that his twin could experience. He also realized that, as hard as this was on his twin, they could afford no distractions on their mission. He needed his brother sharp and ready to go if they were going to pull this thing off successfully.

"Here, catch." He said, tossing the grenade in his brother's direction.

Even before the words were finished, Murphy's hand shot out in an impressive display of reflexes, catching the metal cylinder without effort and inspecting it meditatively.

"Fuckin' thing." He muttered, tracing the holes in the casing with his thumb just as his brother had done.

"Get a hold of yerself, now Murph," said Connor, "Yer no good if yer all caught up in broodin' over Danae"

"I know, I know," said Murphy, running a hand through his hair, and shaking himself from his thoughts, "and I'm not fuckin' broodin'. I just wish I knew what the fuck was wrong with her."

"She'll tell us when she's ready. Danae isn't the sort ta keep secrets and ye know it."

Sighing resignedly, Murphy offered his brother a meager smile. "Fuck it. Let's use some of those empty beer cans we have for target practice out back; maybe blowin' the fuck out o' something will make me feel better."

Connor nodded sagely, "Ye know what they say, when all else fails, fuckin' blow the shit up."

"Aye." Murphy gave a small chuckle, turning his attention back to the grenade he was idly tossing from hand to hand. "Ye know," he said, "maybe this thing is kinda cool."

Laughing, Connor rose to his feet, placing a hand on the back of his twin's neck and squeezing gently. "Come on ye dope, let's go get those empties. I've got a fiver that says I'll batter more o' them than ye will."

o()o

The playground was empty and desolate; dead leaves skittered and swirled in the wind, giving the potentially welcoming place a somber, foreboding feel.

It suited her mood perfectly.

Danae wasn't sure how long she'd been sitting on the ancient swing, listening to the cathartic creak of rusted chains as she swung gently back and forth, staring at the wood chips beneath her feet.

She had always prided herself on her ability to roll with the punches. Whatever life threw at her, Danae took in stride and usually came out on top of the situation. If nothing else in the world, she was a survivor. But now, she had at last found something she couldn't cope with.

Try as she might, and oh, how she had tried, she couldn't make herself come to terms with the idea of what Connor and Murphy were planning.

She couldn't wrap her mind around the concept of them putting a gun to someone's head and pulling the trigger, or that someone might do the same thing to them.

The notion sent a sickening lurch of apprehension straight to her stomach and she swallowed against it. It didn't seem fair that she had just started to feel secure, only to have it ripped away. It wasn't fair that she had finally found someone to care about, who cared about her in return, and now she had to face the fact that someday he could easily wind up dead, slain for a cause that she didn't comprehend.

Lost in dark thoughts, Danae didn't notice another person beside her until she heard a second set of rusty chains squeak into motion.

With a start, she looked over and saw Connor sitting on the swing next to her, his cheeks flushed from the cold, hands in his pockets, using his feet to rock slowly back and forth in time with her swinging.

"Ye've been spending a lot of time out here the past couple o' days." He said quietly, watching her.

"I guess so." It didn't surprise Danae that Connor had known where to find her, or that he knew she had been coming there. Apparently, the concept of privacy was lost on the MacManuses.

"Anythin' ye want ta talk about?"

"Not really."

He looked at her, eyebrows raised imploringly, "Maybe a friendly ear would help."

She tried to meet his eyes, but found that she couldn't, and looked back down at her feet instead. "Thanks for the offer, but I need to be by myself right now. I'll be home in time to fix dinner."

Connor shook his head, sighing. "It'll be dark soon, and I can't say I'm fond of the idea of leavin' ye here alone."

"Please, Connor, I'll be fine." She said, offering him a smile the probably looked as hollow as it felt.

"'Tis the mission that's botherin' ye, isn't it?"

Looking away, Danae gripped the chains of the swing, pushing herself a little higher, the momentum ruffling her hair. "I said I didn't want to talk about this now."

"Ye don't have ta talk about it, I know that ye'll talk ta us when ye're good and ready, but ye do have ta listen ta me for a minute." Connor pulled a cigarette out of his pocket, cupping his hands against the wind as he lit up, still swinging gently.

"Danae ye need ta understand that bein' a Saint is a choice that Murph and meself both made a long time ago and there's no changing that."

His words felt like a generous handful of salt rubbed into an open wound, but Danae forced herself to nod. There was no place for her in the world of vigilantism. She would never stand beside the MacManus brothers as they purged the world of evil, toting a gun of her own. She would never be a part of their holy mission; there was no place for her in the lives of the Saints.

There was no place for her in Murphy's life.

"I know." She choked out, fighting a fresh wave of tears as they attempted to fall. God, would she ever stop crying?

Connor sighed, the white plume of his breath mingling with cigarette smoke as he did. "Ye also need ta understand, though, that this choice and any others we make in the future aren't going ta change how we feel about ye. We're still goin' ta be here for ye and we'll still be yer family. "

She looked at him, surprised by his words and he chuckled, blue eyes sparkling just like his brother's.

"Don't look so gobsmacked, ye aren't the only one that's become attached over the last couple o' months. Murph and me, we aren't goin' ta forget what ye've done for us."

Rising out of the swing, he grabbed the chains of hers, easing her to a stop. "C'mon now, let's get home, it'd freeze the balls of a brass monkey out here."

"Thanks, Connor, but I'm not ready to leave just yet."

"Fuckin' stubborn woman." He muttered, giving her a sly glance and she offered him a hint of a genuine smile.

"Never forget it."

o()o


	22. Chapter 22

o()o

_**Author's note: **This chapter is dedicated to MKOLO, who has asked me consistently for the last 15 chapters when Murphy was going to get a little lovin'.  
**Nifty fact for the day: **The language Murphy speaks to Danae later in the chapter is Gaelic, it means exactly what he repeats to her in english. _

o(22)o

Murphy awoke with a start, tangled in the bed sheets, his heart pounding hard against his ribs. He knew he had been dreaming, but the nightmare that had disturbed him was already fading from his memory. He never could remember the bad ones, and he was convinced that he should be grateful for that.

A muted sound caught his attention. Frowning, he sat up and cocked his head, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

Was someone crying?

His first instinct was to check on his brother, but Connor was still sleeping on the daybed above him, snoring quietly.

As if sensing Murphy's unease, he stirred slightly, brow furrowing, "Yeariatmuf?" he mumbled, more asleep than awake.

"Aye, fine," Murphy said softly, "go back ta sleep."

Connor made a muffled noise of agreement and Murphy sat silently, watching as his twin's breathing became deep and relaxed again, still keeping an ear out for the noise that had woken him.

_There_.

He heard it again, more of a sigh than a sob, and not from inside their room. Sliding off the rollaway mattress, he padded through the darkened house, listening.

As the sounds grew louder, he paused outside of the kitchen, "Danae?"

He heard quick intake of breath, and a quiet sniffle, "Murphy?" she asked, her voice muted with tears, "I'm sorry, did I wake you?"

"Ye didn't." he said softly, feeling a flicker of relief that she was finally speaking to him.

"Liar."

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could make her out, sitting at the kitchen table, head bowed over her hands.

"What's wrong luv?" he asked, moving to sit next to her, smoothing a hand over her hair and smiling slightly when she leaned into his touch.

Danae made a sound that was part laugh and part sob, her breath hitching. "It's funny the things that run through your mind when you can't sleep."

"Want ta talk about it?" he asked.

"No . . . yes . . . I don't know," she made a helpless gesture with her hands before running them through her hair, "it was just a pair of jeans, I shouldn't be this upset over a stupid pair of jeans."

"Jeans?" Murphy asked, nonplussed.

She nodded, swiping impatiently at her eyes. "I was doing laundry and I found a pair of Connor's jeans, they were all . . ." she drew in a shuddering breath, and suddenly her words were tumbling over themselves, ". . . all stained with old blood and I just looked at them and thought that it could have been your blood. It was bad enough that it was Connor's but it could have been _yours._"

New tears slipping down her cheeks, she pressed a hand against her mouth,. "I don't ever want it to be yours, Murphy. I don't want you to die."

"Oh, hey don't, Danae don't." Murphy gathered her into his arms and Danae clung to him, burying her face into his shoulder as she wept, releasing all of the emotion that she'd been keeping pent up inside.

"Is this what's been botherin' ye for the past couple o' days?" he asked, "Ye think I'm goin' ta die?"

Danae's shoulder's jerked as a forceful sob escaped her, her arms tightening around him, and Murphy knew he was right.

"Ah, luv, nobody's goin' ta die." He said softly.

"How can you say that?" she asked, her words muffled by his shirt. "How do you know?"

"Ye just have ta have a little faith."

"No, that's not good enough. Faith isn't enough."

He raised an eyebrow, amused despite her tears. "How about a little faith, two big fuckin 'guns, and a twin with two big fuckin' guns besides, then?"

The quiet sigh she had been in the middle of taking rushed back out as a giggle, "That's better."

Leaning back, he smiled down at her, using his thumbs to wipe away the tear tracks staining her cheeks. "Ye all right now?" he asked, when no new tears fell.

"I think so. How do you do that?"

"Do what, luv?"

"Make things okay the way you do?"

He chuckled, pulling her back into his arms, "Gift of the Irish, passed down through generations of MacManus men."

Danae put her head on his shoulder, her lips curving against the sensitive skin of his neck as she smiled. "Thank you."

"Ye're welcome." He said, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

"Murphy?"

"Aye?"

"I want you to take this." She said, unfastening the bracelet around her wrist and offering it to him. "For luck."

Smiling, Murphy took the bracelet and held it up, examining the bright rainbow of crystal beads interwoven with silver wire. It was one of her favorite things and was never far from her wrist.

"Thank ye, luv." He said, slipping the bangle into his pocket. "I'll take good care of it for ye."

o()o

**_Author's Note:_**_I know this isn't a new chapter, but this scene is rated M for sexual content. All of you out there in PCLand need to use discretion when reading, if it bothers you or if you're too young, then go ahead and skip it, it won't interfere with the plot, I promise. _

o()o

They sat quietly for a while, Danae listening to the sound of Murphy's heartbeat and the rhythm of his breath, feeling the slow circles he was absently rubbing over her back with a warm palm.

_I love him,_ she thought, and was surprised at the sweet throb that accompanied the reflection.

The idea wasn't a new one, she fell in love with Murphy at least a hundred times each day, but tonight it seemed sweeter, more intense than before, and she realized that she wanted him to know how she felt.

Life was so short, and a feeling like this was too precious for them to keep dancing around it the way they were. Suddenly, all the things that had seemed so dire and fearsome the past few days faded away.

Lifting her head, Danae looked at him, her heart in her throat, "I love you." She whispered.

Murphy drew in a sharp breath, "What?" He demanded, his voice low.

"I'm in love with you. Whatever happens Thursday, I want you to know that."

He reached out and cupped her cheek in one hand, breathing her name against her lips as he offered her a loving kiss.

She wound her fingers into the soft darkness of his hair and felt his arms tighten around her, his thumbs stroking across her shoulders as he held her, deepening their kisses.

Before she knew it, they were on their feet and she was pressed up against the refrigerator, Murphy's body against hers. His mouth changed from sweet to wanton as he slid a jean-clad thigh between her legs, circling her waist with his hands.

Danae had always thought of lovemaking as a pleasant enough experience, designed more for the man than the woman. But now as Murphy's touch sent fire racing through her veins and straight to her core, taut and burning, she realized that this time was going to be very, very different.

The idea sent an electrifying shiver throughout her body and she explored him with her hands, tasting the salt of his skin as her mouth followed close behind.

Reaching, he caught her wandering hands in his, pulling them to his chest, running his thumbs over her knuckles.

"Danae, please, be sure about this," he said, his voice rough and breathless "if we keep it up I might not be able ta stop."

"I never want you to stop." She whispered, slipping her hands out of his and resuming her exploration of his body.

Murphy arched against her as she discovered a particularly sensitive spot and she felt him, hard and ready, through the thin cotton of her pajamas. The sensation sent another potent bolt of desire through her.

She tugged at his shirt impatiently and in a swift, practiced, motion he tugged it over his head, relieving her of her pajama top as well. Calloused hands wandered over her back and shoulders before moving to cup her breasts, thumbs teasing the sensitive peaks there.

Kissing him thoroughly, she had the satisfaction of hearing him moan into her mouth as she snaked a hand down his waistband, sliding her fingers over his length.

Murphy's breath tickled across her skin as he murmured to her in a jumble of languages, his breath rising and falling with her strokes, and Danae was certain that she had never felt anything as sensual as his weight against her body and the velvety softness under her palm.

Lost in the heady sensation of warm muscle and smooth skin beneath her hands, she was surprised to find herself in the bedroom when Murphy broke their kiss and lowered her onto her bed, kneeling in front of her; she was equally surprised to find that the rest of their clothing had disappeared.

"Are ye still alright?" he asked, and chuckled when she answered by wrapping her legs around his waist. "I suppose I'll take that as a yes."

Murphy closed his eyes, pausing slightly as he eased into her, catching his lip between his teeth. When he looked at her again, he grinned, humor in his eyes.

"Breathe." He murmured, completing the long, slow stroke he was taking, and she gasped out a breath she hadn't been aware of holding. "Ye have ta remember ta breathe."

Quiet whispers and moans marked the ancient rhythm they were creating together and before long, pressure began to build inside of Danae. She quickened their pace, encouraged by Murphy's soft groans.

Eyes dark, his expression danced along the edge between pleasure and pain as he watched her, waiting, sweat beading on his upper lip and dampening his hair.

Danae dug her fingers into the muscles of his back. Harder, faster, she needed more, thrusting her hips up to meet his increasingly urgent strokes. If only she could . . . if only he . . .

Murphy lowered his mouth to her ear, "_Súnas air mo shon_, Danae. Come for me." He whispered, and her world exploded.

Danae buried her face in his neck, muffling her cries against his skin and Murphy echoed the action, shuddering in and around her as he reached his own climax.

They were still for moment, clinging each other, and then Murphy looked at her through dark lashes, his eyes sparkling as he ran a hand through her hair.

"I forgot ta tell ye, luv," he murmured before kissing her soundly, "that I like yer tattoo."

o()o

The persistent feeling of being alone niggled Connor out of sleep. At first, he thought a noise had roused him, but upon opening his eyes, he realized that it was the exact opposite. The familiar sound of Murphy's breathing and the quiet noises his twin made in his sleep were absent, and the silence was what had woken him.

Pulling a shirt on, smiling to himself as he realized that, for the first time in weeks, the action no longer hurt, Connor rubbed the sleep from his eyes and went to go see where everybody was.

He found Danae out on the patio, a ceramic cup in her hands, quietly watching the brightening sky.

"'Mornin'." He said, sliding open the door and joining her, stretching out in a deck chair.

"Good morning." She replied, offering him a warm smile. "Did you sleep well?"

"I did, aye."

"Good."

He glanced around the patio. "Where's Murph?"

Danae took a deep drink from her mug, color rising to her cheeks. "He's still sleeping, he's . . .ah . . .in my room."

"Is he now?" Connor grinned at her, eyebrows rising toward his hairline, "I take it ye two made up, then?"

Danae looked away, the blush working its way up to the roots of her hair, and remained silent.

"Ye're mighty quiet all of a sudden." He teased; laughing at the look she shot him over the top of her mug.

"Leave her be, Conn." A warm hand ruffled Connor's already disheveled hair as Murphy stepped out onto the patio, holding two ceramic cups.

Connor tugged a pack of slightly squashed cigarettes out of his pocket, offering a smoke to his brother while simultaneously accepting the mug Murphy was holding out to him.

"Coffee?" he asked, eyeing the cup with a mixture of amusement and dismay, it was too early for Danae's coffee.

Murphy shook his head, "It isn't. Turns out our Danae actually makes a decent cup of tea."

Taking a swallow from his mug, Connor was pleasantly surprised to find that his twin was right.

The sun was just starting to rise and Danae smiled at the watery light that was beginning to paint the darkened clouds, her expression serene for the first time in days.

"S'her favorite time of day." Murphy explained, taking a drag from his cigarette and Danae made a quiet noise of agreement. "So what's the verdict, luv, is it goin' ta be a good day?"

Danae tilted her head, still smiling softly, looking almost as though she were listening to something. "Yeah, she whispered. I think it's going to be a good day."

o()o


	23. Chapter 23

o()o

_**Author's Note:** Thanks to Aranatta for the brainstorming goodness and all the help on the action. And thanks to everyone who has read and reveiwed. I love you guys and I just can't tell you that enough!  
**Revised: **11/11/06, added a little more to the action scene, hopefully it reads better now. _

o(23)o

Thursday night came entirely too soon to suit Danae. She had finally managed to push the knowledge of what was coming to the back of her mind, only to have to deal with it all over again. She accepted the rush of emotion with grim determination, unwilling to let it get the better of her.

She had spent most of the morning as an outsider in her own home. Connor and Murphy unconsciously had turned to one another to get them through the day, leaving her little more than a tolerated observer.

Both brothers had whiled away the daylight with the excited anticipation most people only reserved for Christmas day. They had chain-smoked an entire carton's worth of cigarettes and used every can and bottle in the house for target practice in her back parking lot, making Danae glad she lived in a 'less upstanding' part of town. They had wrestled wildly, throwing actual punches and swearing in a myriad of languages, destroying one of her lamps and a kitchen chair in the process. They had boiled pennies to a painstaking shine in saltwater, and had generally made an amicable nuisance of themselves.

But now the waiting game was over, and as the sun dipped below the horizon, their animated banter and antics had all but ceased.

She watched with a peculiar mixture of fascination and apprehension as the MacManuses became composed, focused, and precise. She watched as their friendly, smiling features became cold and hard. She saw sparkling blue eyes become somber and steely. She watched the men she had grown to know fade away, leaving behind strangers in their stead.

_I'm watching the creation of Saints._ The thought was accompanied by a jolt of emotion so intense it was almost painful.

Quietly and efficiently they packed away their gear in identical black duffel bags, traded their normal faded tee-shirts for new black turtlenecks that obscured their tattoos, and slipped deadly looking guns into holsters slung around their shoulders. They moved in perfect harmony with each other, unmindful of the innate sync and mimic of their actions.

They prepared for their coming mission, all the while holding a private conversation with glances, touches, and body language. Danae was well aware that whatever they were relaying back and forth was private for a reason; from her vantage point, it almost looked like they were praying.

Finally, Murphy laid a cool hand on her shoulder, "It's time." He said softly. "Afterwards, we'll probably get a motel for the night."

"You aren't coming home?"

"We can't risk someone seeing us and following us back here." Connor said, zipping his duffel bag and rising to his feet.

Danae gathered what little self-possession that she had left around her like a tattered cape and nodded, fiercely ignoring the lump in her throat that was trying to dissolve into tears. "Call me when it's all over, so I know you're both okay?"

"We will." Murphy said.

"Please," the word came out beseeching and a little desperate. Swallowing, she tried again. "Please be careful."

He offered her a hint of a smile. "Ye know we will."

"Promise me."

"We promise." Smoothing a hand over her hair, Murphy pressed a firm kiss against her lips, his first contact with her all day.

She was surprised when Connor echoed the action, planting a chaste kiss on the corner of her mouth.

Slinging an arm around Murphy's neck, he offered Danae a rakish smile that would have made any girl's knees a little weak, and for a brief moment, Danae got a glimpse of the man that had charmed every nurse on the medical floor during his stay in the hospital.

"We'll talk ta ye soon." He said to her as they stepped outside.

Danae watched out the window until they disappeared from her line of sight, sighing, unmindful of the tears that were streaming freely down her cheeks.

All that was left to do now was to wait.

o()o

The sound of a silenced gun firing always made Murphy think of a cork exploding from the neck of a champagne bottle.

_Pop . . .pfft . . . _

The sound resounded in his ears as he fired; seeming to come from everywhere at once as it echoed off the barren walls of the warehouse. For a moment, the consistency of the din threw him off. There were no loud bangs to aim toward, and the reassuring sounds from his twin's guns were drowned in the muted flood of silenced gunfire. A bullet whizzed by his ear, too close for comfort, and he heard his twin shout something about paying attention, but the actual words were lost in the clamor.

Shaking his head, forcing himself to relax and focus, Murphy let his instincts take over. There weren't as many of these Street Priests as the last time, they had managed to surprise them completely, killing several gangmembers before they had even gotten the chance to reach for their weapons and everything was going just like it should.

Shot after shot reverberated up into his wrist, making his palms tingle as the thugs fell in spurts of blood.

Then there was nothing.

Swearing as he took a step closer to his twin, Murphy pulled the trigger again, and again there was nothing. The fucking gun was jammed!

"Fuck!"

There was a beat of recognition, and the thug he had been aiming for swung his own gun to the side, directing the shot not at Murphy, but at Connor.

Moving quickly, Murphy tossed his useless weapon away and closed the distance between himself and the gangmember, delivering a devastating blow to the inside of the thug's thigh and grappling for the gun he held. The man gave a yelp of surprise as his knee buckled and the gun soared from his fingers, skittering across the concrete floor, too far away to reach.

Swearing as he threw the man to the floor, watching him skid across the dull gray concrete, Murphy landed on top of the thug, fists meeting savagely with flesh as they exchanged blows. He may not have had a firearm, but Murphy was far from being without weapons.

A heavy boot collided with his midsection, sending him tumbling backwards, his breath exploding out as the force of the impact knocked the wind from him. Swearing, he tried to draw a proper breath through suddenly useless lungs, and the thug dropped on top of him, rearing back for another blow.

Swinging at the other man, Murphy's fist connected with something, making a sickening, satisfying crunch, abruptly splattering both of them with blood. The thug staggered back, holding his now broken nose, cursing in Spanish through his cupped hands.

Springing back to his feet, Murphy landed one last blow to the gangmember's temple and the unlucky man crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

Now all he needed to do was get to the fucking gun.

"Mind yerself!" Connor's voice rang out from somewhere to his right, almost lost in the stifled resonance of gunfire and Murphy spotted his twin crouched behind a large wooden crate, firing both his weapons with an almost fluid grace. Connor turned and seeing his twin, blue eyes widened. "Behind you!"

Murphy turned a moment too late and was sent sprawling onto the unforgiving concrete floor. Something hot and heavy pinned him to the ground, crushing his face against the cement. He struggled vehemently and heard a muffled grunt as his elbow connected with something fleshy. Scrabbling out from under his assailant, Murphy lurched to his feet, wiping at the blood that was now flowing freely down his face, and turning to face the person that had attacked him.

His opponent was easily twice as big as himself, bald, covered in tattoos, and wielding a knife that seemed more suited to Columbian jungles than the dingy gray of the city.

Baldy was quicker than he looked, and Murphy barely had time to dodge the fatally sharp blade as it came arcing toward his chest. Missing his target, the thug swung at him with his fist and this time Murphy was too slow.

The blow caught him across the jaw, whiplashing him backwards and slamming him into the wall. His head connected with the pitiless stone, making spots dance before his eyes, and he tasted blood as it flowed down his face and across his lips.

There was no time to worry about the blood in his mouth or the pain in his head, because Baldy was in front of him wrapping thick fingers around his neck.

Murphy narrowed his eyes at the thug, receiving a blow that shredded his lower lip and spat a gob that was more blood than saliva into the man's face. Vicious fingers tightened around his throat cutting off his air and Murphy clawed at the hands crushing his windpipe, kicking furiously as darkness edged his vision.

There was no fucking way he was going to die at the hands of some fat fucker who smelled like sweat and refried beans.

Finally, his boot connected with something solid and the thug's grip loosened just enough for him to gasp in a single whooping breath of air. He reached out, slamming open palms against Baldy's ears and the larger man reeled backwards with a cry of pain as the force from the blows burst his eardrums.

Coughing painfully as he heaved barbwire laced air through his injured windpipe, Murphy slid to the ground, his thoughts for the moment revolving around nothing more than getting air into his lungs.

He had barely managed to stumble to his feet, gasping, before Baldy was rushing toward him again, knife drawn, blood trickling from both ears.

"Connor!" Murphy cried through the fire in his throat, and his brother turned.

He held up a hand, trusting that Connor would understand his plea, and wasn't disappointed.

Barely looking where he was throwing, Connor tossed one of his guns across the room almost directly into his twin's outstretched hand.

The gun was hot from being fired, the grip warmed by Connor's palm and Murphy grinned as he brought the firearm around in a wide arc, aiming directly at the thug and delivering the bastard to hell with the satisfying _Pop . . .pfft _of a bullet to the brain.

Spinning on his heel, composure as perfectly in place as if it had never been disturbed, he rejoined his brother firing at the remaining thugs until the muted sound of gunfire dwindled and died, and the mission was over.

Crossing another corpse's arms across its chest and placing a spotless penny in each eye, Murphy rasped a prayer over the dead thug and dimly heard his brother echoing the words over the ringing in his ears. Now that the pandemonium was done, the absence of sound was almost as painful as the gunfire had originally been, making his head feel like it was full of cotton.

They moved quickly, attending to each of the dead men in turn, making sure that everything was done properly. With, the bodies tended to, and Murphy's blood safely sprayed with ammonia, Connor turned and frowned at his brother.

"C'mere and let me have a look at ye, yer still fuckin' bleeding all over the place."

Murphy batted his twin's hands away. "Later. Let's the fuck out o' here now."

Connor nodded. "Separate exits, I'll meet ye back at the motel."

o()o

Murphy's lip was split wide open and bleeding profusely, a gash on the back of his head also oozed blood, soaking his hair and the collar of his turtleneck. His right eye had already swollen shut and there were angry blackening bruises spreading along his throat and jawline.

Now that they were safely checked-in at the motel, he submitted to his brother's inspection without complaint, allowing Connor to examine his injuries in a rare moment of patience.

"Christ," Connor murmured, dumping ice into a plastic garbage liner and offering it to his twin. "Those fuckers really thrashed ye."

Murphy nodded, wincing as he pressed the makeshift ice pack against the back of his head. "It feels like it."

"I don't think ye broke anything." Connor said as he rose to his feet, grimacing slightly and Murphy frowned at him.

"Did ye hurt yer leg?" he asked, concerned.

Connor shook his head. "It's just sore. That's the most work I've done in fuckin' months."

"I know, ye lazy fuckin' bastard."

"Fuck ye." He said amiably, "Why don't ye get in the shower and clean up, I'll order us a pizza or something while ye do."

Nodding, Murphy tugged his shirt off over his head. "Call Danae too, would ye?" he asked.

"Aye."

Connor waited until he heard the hiss of the shower running, and then flopped on one of the beds, groaning. His entire leg was throbbing mercilessly and he knew that there would be hell to pay tomorrow after it had the chance to stiffen up.

It was worth it though, to deliver those motherfuckers to their maker.

He picked up the phone and dialed Danae's number, grinning when she answered before the first ring had ended.

"'Llo, Danae." He said.

"Hey." Her reply came out more as a sigh or relief than an actual word, making him chuckle.

"I just wanted ta tell ye that we made it ta the motel safe and sound."

"Everything went okay?"

"Aye, fine." It wasn't a lie, exactly, Connor thought, and there was no sense in worrying the girl tonight anyway.

"Is Murphy with you?"

Connor grinned at the careful nonchalance in her voice. "He is, aye, but he's having a shower. Ye want me to have him call ye?"

"No, that's okay." She said, her words at odds with her tones.

Connor was confident he had never heard the word 'no' sound so much like the word 'yes' and chuckled into the receiver. "We'll see ye tomorrow after check-out, all right?"

"Okay, thanks Connor."

Still chuckling, he ended the call and dialed his and Murphy's favorite pizza place.

He had barely hung up the phone from ordering dinner when a loud crash from the bathroom startled him.

"What the fuck did ye drop in there ye fuckin' klutz?" he called, propping himself up on his elbows.

When Murphy didn't reply, Connor slid off the bed, frowning, and pounded on the bathroom door, again met with silence.

"Murph?" he said, opening the door, "Murph!"

Pulling back the shower curtain, he found his twin slumped in the bathtub, unconscious, blood mingling with the water as it swirled down the drain.

"Murphy!" said Connor loudly, "Jesus Christ, Murph!"

Quickly he shut off the spray of water and wrapped his arms around his twin, hauling Murphy out of the bathtub, still frantically repeating his name.

After an endless moment, Murphy stirred, grimacing. "What the fuck are ye doin'?" he asked, bringing a hand to his forehead.

"Ye fuckin' keeled over in the shower," said Connor, pressing a towel against the still bleeding gash in the back of his brother's head. Christ, he was so fucking _pale_. "What the fuck happened?"

"I don't know." He twin mumbled, "I was fuckin' fine, then I got dizzy, then the next thing I know ye're fuckin' yellin' at me."

"Jesus, c'mon let's get ye up off the fuckin' floor." Connor extended his hand, pulling his brother to his feet, searching his mind for the symptoms of a serious head injury.

_Drowsiness,_ he listed silently, _fainting, nausea, or vomiting._ But what the fuck did he do for those things? Were people with a head injury supposed to sleep or were you supposed to keep them awake, he was certain it was one or the other. He needed to call someone who knew.

Easing Murphy onto one of the beds, he picked up the phone, only to have his twin slam a hand on the cradle.

"What the fuck are ye doin'?" Murphy asked, eyes narrowed.

"I'm callin' Danae."

"The fuck ye are."

"Murph, ye just fuckin' passed out in the fuckin' bathtub."

"Ye're not callin' Danae. I'm goin' ta have enough trouble with her as it is, lookin' like this."

"I'm goin' ta have a of a lot more trouble with her if that bastard scrambled yer fuckin' brain and made ye even more retarded than ye already fuckin' are."

"I'm fuckin' fine, now leave it alone."

Sighing, Connor shot his twin an exasperated glance, trying to figure out what to do. When people got hit in the head on T.V. there was always some dope asking the victim stupid questions. He supposed it was better than nothing.

"Name a beer." He said.

"What?"

"Name a fuckin' beer, I'm tryin' ta see if yer fuckin' brain's okay."

"My fuckin' brain is fine."

"Goddamn it, Murphy, just name a fuckin' beer, fuck!"

Murphy scowled at his brother. "Guiness, all right?"

"What pub did we go ta last week?"

"Connor, for fuck's sake, I'm not answering these stupid questions."

Connor opened his mouth to protest, but Murphy cut him off with a shake of his head. "I'm fine, Conn," he said, his tone gentling, "Everything's okay."

"Fine." said Connor, relenting. "But if ye fuckin' drop dead in yer sleep tonight don't come acryin' ta me."

Murphy chuckled, still pressing the rag against the back of his head. "I won't."

When the pizza finally arrived, Connor was relieved to see that Murphy had an appetite and that his color was steadily returning. Even though his twin seemed to be fine, Connor continued to keep a watchful eye on him until Murphy eventually drifted off to sleep, his fingers moving slightly of their own accord even as he began to snore softly.

Rubbing a weary hand over his eyes and pulling a chair next to his sleeping twin, Connor settled in to watch over Murphy for the night. He had just started to doze, lulled to sleep by the rhythmic noise of his brother's breathing when Murphy shifted slightly, rolling over to look at him a quizzical eyebrow raised.

" Conn?"

"Aye?"

"What the fuck are ye doin'?"

"I just want ta make sure ye're all right."

"Go ta fuckin' sleep. Yer creepin' me out sittin' there like that."

Connor chuckled a little bit, but didn't move from his spot. "Can't." he said, "Gotta look out for me little brother."

o()o


	24. Chapter 24

o()o

_**Author's Note: **It's an update overload! I so want to post the next three chapters right now. Anyway, thanks to all who are still reading this and who have taken the time to review, I hope that you're still enjoying it as much as I'm enjoying writing it. _  
**_Nifty fact for the day: _**Agilipollao _is Spanish for fool or a stupid person._

o(24)o

Bill Croghan was one of those men who was born to be a cop. There wasn't a soul alive who could truthfully deny it. Police work was all he had ever done, all he had ever wanted to do and he was damn good at it.

He had a wall full of medals and plaques for the things he had accomplished during his career. Exemplary Service, Valor, Wounded in the Line of Duty, Citizen's honor, Lifesaving, Distinguished Service; he had an award for them all, plus many, many others.

He prided himself on his attention to detail and his ability to see things in a case that others didn't. He could find clues that other cops were blind to and he could solve cases that had other cops stumped. He may have been getting on in years, only 5 left until he could retire as a matter of fact, but he was still sharp as a tack.

And this crime scene made him furious.

The area was a disaster, dead men everywhere. All of them shot to hell and all of them bearing the tattoos that marked them as _Sacerdotes De la Calle. _The bodies had been arranged almost lovingly with arms crossed and a penny in each eye.

He had already talked to CSI and they had told him some very disturbing facts. The guns used in the hit were .9mm, the same caliber that had taken out all the Street Priests in the previous attack. They had also gotten samples off all the blood except one spot where the splatter had been altered with a foreign substance, making a clean sample impossible. Croghan would be willing to bet his balls that the substance turned out to be ammonia.

This shot everything he had told that goddamn FBI agent right to hell. His theory was now officially shit.

_Right on time,_ he thought sullenly as Agent Smecker walked onto the scene, that confident, cocksucking smile plastered across his face.

Just like the first time they had met, the sight of the agent sent a bolt of righteous indignation through Croghan. The Street Priests were _his_ case, He had been working on them since day one and he hated the idea of turning all his hard work over to some big-shot, FBI faggot.

He could almost see months of hard work unraveling before his eyes. Taking in a deep breath, he closed his eyes and shoved his emotions away. If there was ever a time to be a cop, this was it.

He had a hunch that whatever had happened here was the same thing that had gone awry with the first drug deal. The pennies were new though, an eerie touch to the gruesome crime scene.

Croghan frowned as something nagged at the back of his mind. Pennies. What was so special about the goddamn pennies?

Jesus, he was getting old, that tip of the tongue feeling was becoming more and more frequent, and he was sure it was only a matter of time until he was drooling on himself and eating Jell-o in some godforsaken retirement home.

"Croghan, glad to see you're here." Said Smecker, approaching him and holding out a hand.

"You bet." Croghan said, forcing himself to shake the outstretched hand and resisting the urge to wipe it on his pants afterward. "Anything I can do for you, Agent?" Damnit, those words burned, leaving a bitter aftertaste like bile.

The agent shook his head, already turning away, slipping headphones over his ears, and Croghan blinked as what had been tickling his memory struck with a jolt.

Smecker had asked him about pennies once, 'Where are the pennies?' to be exact, while he was looking at the evidence from the first crime scene. At the time, he had dismissed it as bullshit FBI jargon, but now, in light of this calamity, the comment made perfect sense.

That son-of-a-bitch knew what was going on here, he knew exactly what was happening and had all along.

Fighting the urge to walk right up to the lying piece of shit and punch that smug smile clean off of his face, Croghan forced another deep breath into his lungs.

It wouldn't do any good to say anything now, he had no proof that Smecker was doing anything off beam, but it was only a matter of time until the proof presented itself. One thing that 35 years on the force had taught him was that if you waited long enough, a person would incriminate themselves more efficiently then you ever could.

Maybe things would work out just fine after all.

Croghan smiled widely, kneeling down to inspect one of the bodies, a huge man, bald and covered with tattoos, with a bullet right between the eyes.

"Pitiful bastard." He murmured to the corpse as he removed the pennies from its sunken eye sockets, rubbing the coins thoughtfully between his fingers.

The glint of light off of something beside the corpse caught the detective's attention. Leaning over the dead gang member, he reached around its head and retrieved the object, holding it up to inspect.

Light sparkled through a bright rainbow of crystal beads interwoven with silver wire, and Croghan's smile widened. That certainly didn't belong in this slaughterhouse. He pocketed the bracelet and rose to his feet, almost colliding with Townsend, who had just arrived on the scene.

"Where the hell have you been?" he snapped, giving the younger man a disapproving glance.

"I got held up." Said Townsend, offering him a Styrofoam cup.

Shaking his head, he accepted the cup and took a long swallow. "Boy, you're never going to get anywhere in this precinct if you don't start acting like a professional. People have to take you seriously if you ever want to advance, son."

"Yeah." Townsend said, avoiding the older man's eyes. "It won't happen again."

"Well, let's see if CSI has anything else for us. We'll go and have a chat with the ME as soon as we get back to base too, see if he can't shed a little light on the subject, so to speak."

Townsend nodded, heading toward the nearest CSI agent. Following him, Croghan gave Smecker a firm pat on the back as they passed the agent and then reached into his pocket, running his fingers over the strand of beads there, his smile resurfacing.

Yes, things looked like they would work out just fine after all.

o()o

Arturo Mendoza sat quietly at his desk, his face tranquil as he concentrated on the chessboard before him.

It was a work of art; each piece carved out of the finest European crystal, perfect in every detail, right down to the last glittering facet. It had been a gift many years ago from a very powerful drug lord back in his native Columbia, an offering to entice Arturo away from the _Sacerdotes De la Calle_ and into the man's own prominent cartel.

Arturo had taken the gift and admired it lovingly before smiling widely at the drug lord, raising his gun, and blowing the _agilipollao's_ head off for daring to presume that he could possibly be bought.

He was a firm believer that one does not see the world as it is, but rather sees the world as they are, and any man who believed that you could simply turn someone away from his life's work with a paltry bribe was not a man worth doing business with.

Ah, but he loved the chess set.

Thoughtfully he moved a piece from the white side of the board, a clear crystal knight, and then countered it with a darkened pawn, enjoying the way the light glimmered through the pieces, creating rainbows across the frosted crystal board. This was shaping up to be an invigorating match.

He watched the chess game gradually unfold with interest. To him, it was the ultimate game of strategy and business, a perfect illustration of true life. Just like in life sometimes sacrifices had to be made, and sometimes you could take out your opponent in a single decisive move. Arturo had always felt he could respect a man who played a good game of chess.

Without warning, the door to his office burst open and Arturo frowned as one of his message boys rushed in, thin face flushed and sweaty, dark hair unkempt and moist with sweat.

Esteban was nearly a man now, but Arturo had known him since he was a _recién nacido,_ fresh from his mama's womb and would never think of him as anything but a boy.

"Arturo!" he said, his tone frantic, and then stopped, eyes widening, "I mean, Señor Mendoza.

Arturo frowned, his attention never leaving the chessboard. "Esteban, what have I told you about knocking?"

The boy stopped, blinking. "I'm sorry Señor Mendoza, but this is . . ."

Arturo held up his hand, silencing the boy as he moved another chess piece. "Whatever it is, Esteban, it can wait."

"But Señor Mendoza . . ."

"Esteban!" he said loudly, irritated, his hand still held up for silence, his mind still on the board. After carefully positioning a dark bishop, he glanced up, giving the boy a disapproving look.

"What are you doing?" he asked, "You come into my office without knocking, interrupt my chess match and for what? To distract me? Why? We have talked about this again and again . . ."

"I'm sorry Señor Mendoza," Esteban interrupted, his voice shaking with a mixture of fear and excitement, "but Ramiro just got word about last night's _envío, _the shipment."

Arching an eyebrow, Arturo moved another piece, countering the bishop. "And?"

"They're all dead, Señor."

"Dead?"

"_Si. _The _policía _said that all the _Sacerdotes _were killed and that nobody else was there, just like before."

"Just like before." Arturo mused as he returned the piece he had just moved to its original place and selected another. "Really?"

"_Si._"

"That's very interesting, don't you think, Esteban?" he said, moving the new piece across the board.

"Ramiro said it was _fantasmas,_ ghosts that come in and kill them all."

Chuckling a little, Arturo raised an amused eyebrow. "_Fantasmas,_ maybe they are indeed. Esteban, go and tell Ramiro to arrange another meeting with our officer friend, then tell him to get everyone together. I think it's time we all had a little conversation."

Esteban nodded then scurried out of the room, leaving the door wide open behind him.

With a sigh, Arturo rose to his feet and closed the door. He loved Esteban like he would his own son, the boy had a great deal of potential, but sometimes he threatened to drive Arturo insane.

Frowning he settled back into the comfortable leather of the chair and turned his attention again to the chessboard, thinking about the _envío_ and the men that had ruined it.

He had thought this problem was taken care of, yet here he was with another group of dead soldiers, some of his best this time, and another mess to clean up. This was completely unacceptable.

Once he could contend with; once was a mistake, an unfortunate twist of fate. But twice? Twice and there was someone to blame. Twice meant that someone was looking for him, seeking him out, and destroying his life's work with bullets and bloodshed.

Who were these _fantasmas,_ these ghosts that were so determined to keep him out of the _Estados Unidos_? Somehow, these men had risen from the ashes of a carefully planned explosion to return him, once again, to square one.

Whoever they were, he mused, it was only a matter of time before he found them and made them understand exactly what it meant to cross Arturo Mendoza. Oh, yes, he would find them and there would be hell to pay.

The sound of a crystalline _crinch_ drew his attention, and looking down he frowned at the shattered knight he was holding between his fingers and at the blood running down his hand, dripping steadily onto the chessboard.

o()o


	25. Chapter 25

o()o

_**Author's Note: **Thanks to my beta-monkey MKOLO for all the help with this chapter. Trust me, guys it's way better now.  
**Nifty fact for the day:** Molly is a term that mean effeminate or girly_

o(25)o

Connor awoke to a whirlwind of movement and swearing that could only be his brother. Shifting in the uncomfortable motel room chair, he stretched, grimacing at the misery in his leg. He had known it was coming, but that didn't make the dull ache throbbing from hip to ankle any less painful.

Glancing at the bed where Murphy had slept, he found it empty, only a dark smear of red on the pillow indicating that his twin had been there at all.

The sight of the dried blood against the white pillowcase made his stomach constrict. Blood was just blood, he knew, but his twin's blood was different, more precious, and seeing it spilled troubled him. He remembered how pale Murphy had been slumped in the bathtub the previous night, still and silent. His stomach gave another sickening lurch at the idea, making Connor blink at the intensity of the sensation.

Even when he had been shot, Murphy had been alert and coherent, cracking jokes through his apprehension and later, through his pain. His twin was always full of energy, the very definition of exuberance and Connor hoped he never again had to see his brother as vulnerable and helpless as Murphy had been last night.

Frowning as he was struck with the sudden urge to see his brother, to reassure himself that Murphy had made it safely through the night, Connor opened his eyes and saw his twin rooting through one of their black duffel bags across the room.

If it was possible, Murphy's injuries looked worse in the daylight, bruises livid, and scrapes standing out in dark contrast against his fair skin. He knew that as the bruises blossomed his twin would only look worse, becoming a mottled array of colors, before he looked better.

"Mornin'." Connor said, rubbing the back of his neck, and was given a distracted grunt in reply.

"What the fuck are ye doin'?"

Murphy didn't look up, but instead scowled into the bag before shoving it aside. "I can't fuckin' find it." He muttered.

"Find what?"

"Danae's bracelet. She fuckin' gave it ta me before we left and now I can't find it."

"Is it in yer pocket?" Connor asked through a yawn, and Murphy shook his head.

"That's the first place I looked. It's isn't fuckin' anywhere, I've been tearin' this place apart all morning." He stopped, sighing, "Fuck."

Getting to his feet, Connor gingerly flexed his leg, trying to work the ache out of his muscles. He limped over to his brother and gave him an amicable pat on the back.

"It'll be fine, Murph."

"Do ye think I lost it at the fuckin' warehouse?"

"Even if ye did, we can't fuckin' go back there, that place is probably crawling with cops already."

"I know. Fuck!" Murphy made an exasperated gesture with his hands before running them through his hair. "What the fuck am I goin' ta tell her?"

Connor shrugged "Tell her ye were getting' the shite kicked out o' ye and ye lost it."

"Real fuckin' helpful, Conn."

"I'm serious. Listen, maybe Smecker found it, I'm sure he would have picked it up if he did." Said Connor, grinning as his twin brightened.

"That's a good idea; I'll call him later and see."

"Of course it's a good idea. C'mere now and let me have a look at ye."

Obeying, Murphy straightened and submitted to Connor's inquisitive touch in a rare display of patience. Carefully, Connor probed the back of his brother's head, feeling Murphy jerk slightly as he ran two fingers over the lump there.

"Ow."

"Sorry." Connor muttered, still inspecting the wound, "How are ye feelin'?"

"Like my eejit brother is jammin' his fingers inta my fuckin' skull." The words were abrasive, but spoken around a smile. "What's the prognosis Doc?"

Carefully Connor moved to examine the black eye and finally the deep purple bruises marring the skin of his brother's throat. "Ye look like shit." He said quietly and his twin laughed.

"Is that your professional opinion?" Murphy said, eyebrows raised.

"It is, aye."

"Well, that's good then, because I fuckin' feel like shit."

Chuckling, Connor stepped away from his twin, satisfied that Murphy was all right.

"Let's get out o' here. I'll leave first and meet ye back at Danae's.

o()o

Murphy walked up to Danae's patio, grinning as he saw her curled up in one of her deck chairs, talking to his brother, nodding at something Connor was saying.

Slipping up to her and wrapping his arms around her from behind, he brushed a kiss against her hair. "Mornin', luv," He murmured and felt her stir, breathing an audible sigh of relief.

"You're back."

"Aye,"

"I'm glad you're both here." She said sounding so peaceful that Murphy hated knowing that he was going to have to take that away from her.

"Did ye stay up all night?"

She shifted slightly, leaning into his embrace, eyes still closed. "Nope."

"Are ye lyin'?" Connor asked, grinning.

"Maybe . . . a little." The words were separated by a jaw-splitting yawn. "I'm almost afraid to ask, but how did it go last night? "

"We're alive." Murphy said unthinkingly, and regretted the words as soon as he spoke them, feeling Danae stiffen in his arms.

From the other side of the patio he saw his brother roll his eyes skyward, and the meaning was clear.

_Way ta go, ye fuckin' retard_

"What's happened?" she asked, all traces of sleep gone from her voice, replaced by alarm.

"We're fine," he said, trying to recant his words, holding her tightly as she made an effort to turn around in her seat. "Just be still and listen ta me now."

"Murphy, what's wrong? Connor?"

Over her head, Murphy exchanged a resigned look with his brother and shrugged; it was now or never. "My gun jammed while we were there. I had ta do a bit o' scrappin', and got knocked around some."

He frowned at how still she had become, he could feel her breathing against him, her breaths suddenly coming too fast and too shallow. This was going all wrong; he was making it so much worse than it had to be.

"You're hurt." Her voice was barely a whisper and he felt her shoulders hitch in another uneven breath. "Is that why you sound different?"

There was no sense in lying to her now; she was going to see him eventually. "It is, aye. One o' them grabbed me by the throat and it's still a bit sore. Listen ta me now, it looks a lot worse than it really is . . ." he stopped as she turned around, eyes widening until they swallowed the rest of her face.

"Oh, my God." She choked out, pulling away to face him fully. "Oh, God."

Murphy wasn't sure who was more surprised when she rose out of the chair and gave Connor a swift, forceful blow to the arm.

"Ow!" His brother yelped, expression indignant as he rubbed the spot she had struck, "What the fuck?"

"You lied to me, you said everything was fine!"

"I didn't want ta worry ye." He protested.

Danae gave him an heated, disbelieving look and Murphy bit back a chuckle as his twin looked away, chagrined.

"T'was just a little fib."

Shaking her head with a sigh Danae muttered something to him that Murphy couldn't hear.

Whatever she had said provoked a hearty laugh from his twin, though, and Connor looked at her, eyes sparkling.

"Yeah, but can ye say it in German?"

Murphy extended a hand to give her a reassuring pat and was more than a little hurt when she flinched away, wrapping her arms around her body.

"I'm all right, Danae." He said softly. "I'm standin' here talkin' to ye aren't I?"

Danae didn't answer, but instead reached out to touch him, pausing at the last moment, her hands trembling.

"Go on." He encouraged. "I'm not goin' ta break."

Feather light touches whispered around his eyes, down to his bruised jaw before finally caressing across his lip, sending an unexpected jolt through him. Her touch was too light to hurt, but just enough to send blood rushing to places it shouldn't be, especially not in public. Dimly he was aware of his brother slipping by them and into the apartment.

"Where else are you hurt?" she asked, and he hated the tears that he could hear in her voice, and see brimming in her eyes.

"The back of my head, and where that fellow grabbed me by the neck."

Her gaze never left his face, that keen searching look burning in her eyes, as she ran a finger lightly around the collar of his turtleneck. Reaching up, he tugged the collar down, not missing her sympathetic wince as the bruises were revealed.

Barely touching him, she traced the purpled outline of each of the gangmember's fingers along his throat, as though the gentleness of her caress could somehow counteract the harshness of his injuries. Murphy didn't understand exactly what she was doing, but he understood perfectly what it was doing to him as his body responded to her fingers across his skin.

Reaching, he caught her hands, shifting slightly to relieve the pressure that her touch had fostered. "Don't start somethin' ye can't finish, luv." He murmured into her ear, smiling down at her and raising his eyebrows.

Danae didn't reply, but instead freed her hands and gave him a look that effectively killed his line of thought, distant, and heartrending.

"S'all right," he said softly, wishing he knew what was running through her mind. "I'm right here."

He flinched when she eased her fingers into his hair, grazing the lump on the back of his head and she jumped, withdrawing her hand.

"I'm sorry." She gasped, "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"Ye didn't. It's just a little tender yet."

Swallowing, she nodded, swiping under her eyes and not making another move to touch him.

The sound of the patio door opening drew both their attentions and Murphy saw Connor standing there, a beer in each hand.

Crossing her arms across her chest, cupping her elbows, Danae took another step away from Murphy and nodded toward his brother.

"What about you, any damage?" she asked quietly.

"Aside from some fuckin' crazy woman sluggin' me in the arm, I'm fine." He said, smiling at her as he offered Murphy the unopened bottle of beer. "Don't let Murph fool ye, Danae. He's not as molly as he looks."

"Oh fuck, ye." Murphy replied, reaching out to swat at his twin before taking the bottle from him. "I don't remember ye lending hand when that bastard had me pinned ta the wall by me fuckin' neck."

"Well if ye could handle yer fuckin' gun I wouldn't have had ta . . . Danae, what's wrong?"

Murphy followed his brother's line of sight and saw Danae backed into the corner of the patio, tears slipping down her cheeks.

Connor slipped an arm around her shoulders and he mirrored the act on the other side. "What's goin' on luv?" he asked her gently.

Danae wiped at the tears on her face and tried to force a smile, which abruptly turned into a quiet sob.

Frowning, Murphy shared a swift glance with his brother and Connor gave Danae a gentle push toward Murphy's arms, brow furrowing when she resisted, more tears falling.

Wounded, Murphy looked at her, trying to suss out what was wrong, and then he noticed the black circles under her eyes and wondered how long it had been since she had slept. One thing he had picked up from his Ma, Aunts, and many female cousins was that the more exhausted a woman got, the more emotional she became.

"C'mon, luv, yer so fuckin' tired ye can't even see straight." He said, reaching out and taking her hand, running his thumbs across her knuckles. "Let's get ye ta bed, now."

She hesitated and he gave her hand a gentle tug. "C'mon, everything's all right."

Finally, she obeyed. Connor gave her hair a sympathetic ruffle, and Murphy led her into the apartment then to her bedroom.

Eyes still troubled, she curled around her pillow, sighing.

Murphy sat next to her, running a hand down her side before moving to untie his boots. "How 'bout a little company for a while?" he asked, pleased when a ghost of a smile curved her lips.

"You're doing it again." She murmured.

"Doin' what, luv?"

"Making everything seem okay."

"That's because everything is okay." He said, kicking his boots off and coming to stretch out behind her, wrapping his arm around her middle. "Now go ta sleep."

Cradling her body against his, Murphy listened as her breaths became slow and even, the sound softer and lighter than his brother's breathing. Absently he toyed with her fingers, his own eyes growing heavy.

A shadow in the doorway drew his attention and looking up he saw his brother standing there.

"She okay?" Connor asked, inclining his head toward Danae.

"I think so, aye. She'll feel better after some sleep." Replied Murphy, yawning.

"Looks like ye could use a bit o' rest yerself."

"I can't believe I'm so fuckin' tired after sleepin' all night."

His twin chuckled, "Have a kip, I'm goin' ta go see what's on TV."

"Wake me in an hour or so, would ye?"

Connor nodded then disappeared out of the room. Murphy shifted slightly, pulling Danae closer to him and pressing a kiss against her shoulder.

"Sleep well." He murmured and smiled as she nodded sleepily, cuddling closer to him.

"Thank you." She whispered and Murphy chuckled shaking his head.

"You and yer fuckin' etiquette."

o()o


	26. Chapter 26

o()o

_**Author's Note:** Just a little fun before the holiday. I'm thankful for all my amazing readers out there in PCLand and I hope all of you have a great Thanksgiving!  
**Nifty Fact for the day: **Go raibh maith agat (guh ro my a-gut) is Gaelic for Thank you. _

o(26)o

Smecker was losing his mind.

The stress of his case and of lying to everybody in the friggin' precinct, carefully feigning ignorance about the latest hit on the Street Priests, had finally reached a boiling point and driven him completely batshit, of that he was certain.

It was a nerve-racking tug-of-war. He was a man who was sworn to sustain the law, and he took that oath more seriously than most. For someone of his convictions to be actively corrupting a case as important as this, a case that he once would have delighted in solving, well, it was almost too much. Except that there was no case for him to solve this time because he already knew exactly what had happened to the Street Priests.

They had been struck down by the Saints.

For the past year, he had enjoyed the bittersweet twinge that came from seeing indication the Saints' work in the newspaper, of knowing that someone was doing what he himself could not. He had worried when Murphy had called him from the hospital. He cared about those boys, he really did and he had been just as happy to help them find out about the men that were trying to kill them, just a little research here and there, he never expected it to pull him in the way it did.

But now he was _involved_, no longer just reading about their vigilantism, no longer just a voice on the telephone, but once again, a living, breathing part of the black and white war the MacManus brothers were waging against the wicked and he wasn't so sure that he wanted to be.

The ideas of legality and justice should have gone hand in hand, but in the real world, they didn't. They went skewing off in opposite directions, one leading to a fallible jury and a fallible judge and, more than likely, a minimum sentence for the greatest of crimes.

The other leading directly to a bullet in your head.

How many times had he watched months of hard work go swirling down the drain simply because some half-baked jury member couldn't get their head out of their friggin' ass long enough to see the truth of what had really happened, their own petty beliefs and reservations completely obscuring his carefully collected evidence and reports? How many times had he seen someone released from prison only to go out and repeat the same disgusting crime the very next week, hell the very next _day? _

Too friggin' many times for him to count.

So he dutifully went through the motions of investigating a slaughterhouse that had previously been a quiet warehouse on the east side of town, curbing the painful pull of what was right and what was wrong with a steady stream of cigarettes, dossiers, and scotch.

Apparently, all of the booze and smoke and lies had finally penetrated his brain, giving it a good old-fashioned scramble because try as he might, the last time he remembered having his briefcase was right here in his office, and now it was gone.

He was not the kind of man who just went around misplacing things, especially not something as important as his briefcase, yet here he was, tearing his work area apart, again, looking for something that was never very far from his hand

He was a meticulous man; some people would even go so far as to call him anal, much to his private amusement. Losing his briefcase was disturbing, not only because it was full of things that could potentially end his career, although that was more than reason enough, but because it went against his very nature to mislay anything. So, the only logical excuse he could figure was that he was going insane.

Sighing, giving his office one last glance-over for good measure, Smecker grabbed his cup of coffee and wove his way through the throng of local PD, all of whom were talking about the same thing: Thursday night's hit on the Street Preists, slowly working his way toward the opposite end of the building.

The ME's office seemed chillier than ususal, and Smecker shivered as he walked through the meat locker-esque door.

"Agent Smecker!" The ME called to him, beckoning with a gore-covered hand. "Looks like someone is solving your case for you, eh?"

Raising an eyebrow, he walked over to the autopsy table, glancing down at the cadaver there. The corpse was huge, bald and tattooed, a neat bullet-hole surrounded by a black ring marring its forehead. Smecker recognized it as one of the bodies from the crime scene.

The remains had already been cleaned and Smecker was appalled to see that the fingers of the corpse's right hand were curled into a stiff claw around a cup of soup, securely holding it on the chrome table.

"Did you ever find your briefcase?" asked The ME, and Smecker shook his head.

"Not yet, but I'm still looking. Who's this?"

Adjusting his safety goggles, the ME picked up a scalpel and made a few practice cuts in the air just above the cadaver's hairline.

"This is Roberto Ramirez, one of 15 bodies recovered from the warehouse this morning, male, Hispanic, 27, identified by the driver's license in his wallet. Cause of death was a .9mm shot to the head; he also has several injuries consistent with an assault."

Wincing as the ME made the first cut, Smecker nodded, swallowing. Why did it seem that every time he showed up, this guy was just starting to hack into some poor asshole?

"Gunshots are amazing things." The ME said, wielding the now bloody scalpel, and deftly slicing through the rest of the dead gangmember's scalp. "They look so neat from the front, but the back of this guy's head is a complete mess. What else can cause that kind of destruction, I ask you?"

Smecker forced himself to focus on something other than the quiet sound of splitting flesh as the ME peeled back the flesh of the cadaver's scalp, revealing the skull beneath.

"I couldn't tell you." He managed.

Nodding, the ME continued to cut. "I couldn't either. Nothing damages quite like a bullet, although something sure tried on this guy. He's beaten to hell and back, even his eardrums are busted, awfully unusual in attacks like this."

"Did you find any of our mystery drug on any of these bozos?" he asked.

"As a matter of fact I did. I also happened to discover its official street name." The ME said, chuckling a little bit, causing Smecker to look at him curiously.

"Our friends the Street Priests are peddling, and this is even a little too much irony for me, Absolution."

For a moment, the words stopped Smecker cold, torn between the urge to laugh and to roll his eyes in disgust. What was it with people and their symbolism?

"Absolution?" he asked incredulously.

"That's right. I found about half a pound of it between all of these guys. One had it neatly labeled in his pocket right next to about three ounces of cocaine. It just goes to show that even the anal-retentive sometimes go to the Dark Side."

"Un-frigging-believable." Smecker said, chuckling a little in spite of the gruesome sight before him.

"Tell me about it, all of these religious analogies running around just drive me nuts. Whatever happened to the good old days of electric Kool-Aid? I took the liberty of calling some other local mortuaries and it turns out that this has been leaking it's way into the US for a while now. Most of the other examiners have been labeling it a heroin overdose.

"How long are we talking about?"

"Several months at least, the earliest one I found was sometime in the summer. I hope you know, Agent, that this little drug is the face that launched a thousand exhumations. I almost feel sorry for the lackadaisical bastards that have to dig all those bodies up for testing."

"What happened to the drugs you found on these guys?"

The ME shrugged, removing the rest of the scalp and holding it up, eyeing it thoughtfully. "I sent it up to evidence first thing after the tox report; it's probably rotting there with the rest of the drugs from the first hit."

Smecker frowned, "The rest of the drugs? Weren't they disposed of a long time ago?"

Setting the scalp aside with a stomach-lurching _splot_, the ME looked at Smecker, frowning, the protective goggles he was wearing reminding the agent of that horror movie, the one with John Getz. What was it called, The Fly?

"They shouldn't have been, pushing stuff through evidence like that just isn't possible this day and age. There are waiting periods and protocols that have to be followed, trust me."

"I see." Said Smecker, the wheels in his mind already turning, that movie was definitely called The Fly, if only all the answers came to him so easily. "Thanks."

"No problem." The ME replied, turning back to the body in front of him, selecting an electric saw, and giving it a test start. Slowly he lowered the spinning blade to the exposed skull with a sound like someone slicing through thick plastic, after a moment the noise stopped and the ME made a small sound of triumph.

"There we go." He said, gently removing the top of the unfortunate gangmember's head. "Not much brain left, but that's to be expected. Is there anything else I can do for you, Agent?"

Wondering if he looked as pale as he felt, Smecker swallowed and shook his head. "No, thank you." He said.

"Well if you change your mind, you know where to find me."

As he was walking toward the exit, Smecker heard the unmistakable _bloop_ of something falling into a cup of soup and the ME sighed wearily.

"Guess I won't be finishing that." He said and Smecker shut the door, shaking his head.

o()o

The incinerator room smelled like gas and the watery blue walls seemed to be coated in a permanent layer of pale soot. Despite its obvious lack of sanitation, the place was well maintained and taken care of with an almost loving touch. Somebody obviously enjoyed their job here.

Smecker walked into the area and approached the chain-link divider that separated the evidence custodian from the rest of the world, looking through the links at the person beyond. The man behind the partition was busily typing away, long slender fingers making short work of the keystrokes, humming quietly as he did.

Clearing his throat, Smecker felt his eyebrows raise toward his hairline as the other man looked up from his work.

Dark Asian eyes snapped up to meet his, openly appraising the agent before full lips curled into a coy, almost flirtatious smile.

"Something I can help you with?" he said, and Smecker didn't miss the slight lisp that curved around his words.

"Paul Smecker, FBI. I'm looking for some information about a drug shipment that was disposed of here about a month ago. This is the case number and the file."

Sliding Croghan's report under the divider, Smecker watched as the custodian took the file from him, dark fingers lingering slightly over his lighter ones before he picked up the folder, pursing his lips as he read.

After a moment, he slid the file back to Smecker, turning to type something into the computer, brow furrowing as he did. After a moment he looked up, expression still perplexed.

"I'm sorry, Agent; but I can't help you. Our records show that this report never came through and neither did the drugs."

"That's impossible," Smecker said frowning, "I'm holding the report right here in my hands, you just read the friggin' thing."

Shaking his head, the custodian shot him an apologetic look. "According to the computer, a report with that number was never filed. If the report isn't filed then a requisition isn't filled out. Without a requisition, nothing goes in that incinerator. Whatever drugs you're looking for never made it here Agent."

Nonplussed, Smecker stared down at the report in his hands. What the fuck had happened to the drugs then?

"Could they have made it here and just not gotten destroyed?" he asked and the evidence custodian nodded, his dark eyes never leaving Smecker's face.

"It's possible, sometimes things get held up due to paperwork, but we're completely empty right now. Besides, this was never stamped as being brought into the area. Everything that gets filed and returned to the PD gets stamped here in the corner.

"So why didn't this get stamped?

"Someone must have forgotten, you'd have to talk to the person that was working here before me."

"When will they be in again?"

The Custodian sighed, shrugging. "He won't be. He made detective not too long ago and transferred to the precinct uptown."

"Oh really? What was his name?"

"Joshua Townsend. He was a super nice guy, a little odd, but still, you know, nice."

Fighting the urge to yell ' Eureka!' Smecker nodded, half listening to what the other man was saying.

Joshua friggin' Townsend, of course, he would have access not only to the drugs but to the reports as well, but what in the hell would a rookie cop do with 47 kilos of cocaine? And it still didn't answer the question of what the Street Priests were doing trafficking cocaine when they had something as potent as Absolution in their pocket. Too many questions were left unanswered, but one thing was certain:

"Looks like we have a traitor in our midst." He said, turning away.

"Agent!" The evidence custodian called, sliding a white card through the slot in the divider, "If you need anything here's my card. My home number's at the bottom in case you need anything . . . ah . . . after hours."

Taking the card and examining it, Smecker gave the other man a tongue-in-cheek glance, arching an eyebrow. "Thank you . . . Nigel. I'll be sure to keep that in mind."

Tucking the card in his breast pocket, Smecker walked out of the dingy building and out into the bright autumn sun, thinking.

There was a lot of shit here that didn't make sense, but he felt that he was getting closer to the answers he needed, closer to blowing this case wide open. Smiling he turned the corner, heading toward the station, it was only a matter of time before he put all the pieces together and discovered the whole picture, he just had to keep working on finding all those niggling little pieces. He realized with a jolt that he didn't mind finding those pieces, Saints or no, he was still a man sworn to uphold the law and he would do just that by getting to the bottom of these bastards.

Besides, there was nothing more fun than browbeating a rookie.

o()o


	27. Chapter 27

o()o

_**Author's Note:** _Perra _is Spanish for bitch, _caballero_ means gentleman, _familia_ means family, _ovejas _means sheep, _jefe_ translates to head or boss and _novia_ means girlfriend. I swear we're all going to be fluent in Spanish by the time this story is over!  
**Nifty Fact for the Day: **Just in case all that Spanish wasn't enough, if you want to tell someone that they're beautiful in Gaelic you tell them _Tá tú go h-álainn, _if you want to tell them you miss them, the phrase is _cronaím thú.  
_**Special Thanks: **To MKOLO for reading this 8 billion times only to have me scrap it and start over. You're the best, Monkey! Also to Aranatta for the nudge (read foot in ass) in the right direction._

o(27)o

Danae stared at the paperwork before her without actually seeing it, her fingers flying over the keyboard automatically as she typed, her mind on the Saints.

The ER was quiet, having seen its last patient well over an hour ago. The night nurse had gone on her lunch break and the ER physician had retreated to his lounge to eek in what little precious sleep his shift would allow. The lights had been dimmed, and some movie was playing on the lobby television.

Listening for a moment, she placed the dialogue and shook her head, unable to believe that they were actually televising Pulp Fiction.

Samuel L. Jackson's voice seemed to fill the waiting room and Danae felt a painful throb in her chest as the words reached her.

_"The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the iniquities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he, who in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother's keeper and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon thee." _

Apparently, there was no getting away from crazy men on a mission from God today.

She had spent the last three days in a daze, the reality about what Connor and Murphy had done had gotten shuffled to the back of her mind, maybe in self-defense, and she had somehow managed to disregard Murphy's bruises and the articles in the newspaper describing the MacManus's 'mission' in every brutal detail.

But when she had woken up to go to work yesterday evening, padding silently through the house, and had found one of the brothers' guns sitting on the kitchen table, as though it belonged there, next to a newspaper proclaiming the Saints as serial killers, the truth had been brought into startling focus.

Killers, vigilantes, criminals.

Her hands began to tremble slightly as the thought hit her for a second time, along with the heartrending jolt of emotion that accompanied it, and her typing faltered. The computer beeped its disapproval of her inattention and she swiped at the warmth gathering in her eyes, refusing to lose her composure at work. Sucking in a fortifying breath and forcing the tears back where they belonged, she started typing again.

She had left them that night without saying goodbye, slipping out of the house as quietly as possible, leaving them where they had fallen asleep in the living room. Murphy had been sprawled out across the couch and Connor stretched out in the recliner, some movie about aliens invading earth on the television. Pausing in the doorway, giving them a long look as they slept, separated but still curled slightly toward each other, she had realized that she could no longer see her Connor and Murphy; she could only see the Saints.

They had killed more people than she could fathom without a second thought, thinking themselves to be the judge, jury and executioner of the depraved. They had been charged with a divine undertaking that she could never understand, and they acted on it with an unparalleled passion. They lived in a world where there was a war raging, but what they didn't seem to see was that they were the only ones fighting.

She couldn't watch them come home to her time after time beaten and weary. She didn't want the nauseating anxiety that came with waiting for them to return, wondering if they had a gun to someone's head at that very moment, or if they were the ones about to lose their lives. It was too much to know that the men who had grown so dear to her had an invisible clock above them, counting down the minutes until they were taken away, either by some obscure mission, or by death itself.

Now more than ever, she was certain that there was no place for her in the lives of the MacManus brothers.

Armed with that knowledge, she had begun the painful process of letting them go, telling herself that _it was better this way. _

The phrase had become an oft-repeated mantra over the past few days. She used it as a balm for the pain that came with avoiding her makeshift family. She told herself that it eased the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach whenever she thought about coming home to a cold empty apartment, of being stripped of the light and love the MacManuses seemed to radiate, even though it was a lie

_It's better this way_.

She had reiterated it as she resisted the urge to touch Murphy as he slept, to balance the signs of violence his body still bore with a gentle caress, as she forced herself to ignore the fact that she was still very much in love with him and, in all probability, always would be.

Oh, how she loved him. She loved his eyes and his smile, his ceaseless energy and they way his mind worked. She loved the way he was devoted to his brother and his conviction in doing what was right, even if what he thought was right was horribly wrong. She loved him more than she could ever put into words, but she could never have him completely. His heart would always belong to his blood-spattered calling.

The tears she had been fighting came without warning, dripping off of her nose and onto the keyboard before she even had the sense to stop typing. For a moment, her fingers continued to dance across the keys in a desperate attempt to reclaim control over her emotions, but when the keyboard began to blur she buried her face in her hands and gave in.

She cried until her eyes were swollen and her nose was clogged, pouring out all the worry and grief that had been threatening to eat her alive since before the mission in a flood of tearstained emotion.

A sudden noise behind her, almost too soft to be heard startled Danae away from her misery, sniffling she looked up just as a hand clamped over her mouth, effectively muffling her alarmed screams. Strong arms jerked her out of her chair, dragging her backward through the ER.

Struggling to get loose, the heel of her shoe connected with something and she heard a yelp, followed immediately by a blow to the back of her neck and something cold and metal being pressed against her temple.

"Keep fighting me and I'll blow your fucking head off, _perra_." A low, accented voice growled in her ear and Danae stilled at once, terrified.

_There's a gun to my head, _her mind gibbered hysterically, _I don't want to die I don't want to die I don't want to die. . . _

Frantically searching for help, she saw Jean, the night nurse, sprawled over the white tiled floor of the ER hallway, chillingly motionless in a spreading pool of crimson.

_Oh god . . . _

Her wrists were bound behind her back, something hard and sharp cutting into the delicate skin there, and a dirty, foul-tasting rag was shoved into her mouth, replacing the hand and making her gag.

There was a sudden, sharp pain across the right side of her head and Danae gave a muffled, panicked, sob as she caught the glint of a knife in the fluorescent hospital lights.

_I don't want to die I don't want to die I don't want to die . . ._

A musty bag was thrown over her head, blinding her, and someone gave her a hard shove between the shoulder blades, making her stumble, bruising her knees on the hard tile. Tears streaming down her cheeks, panting like some caged animal, she was roughly hauled back to her feet, unfamiliar fingers biting into the flesh of her arms as the pressure of the gun was returned to her temple.

"Walk!" an angry voice commanded.

The cold night air cut through her thin sweater like a knife as she staggered through the ER doors and she shuddered as much from the chill of the night air as from fear. Blinded and disoriented she followed the growled commands and vicious shoves until she was lifted and dumped into a tiny space, something closing securely over her head.

The tight, closed in, feeling sent her panic soaring to new heights, and she struggled, screaming against the gag. She couldn't move, she couldn't _breathe,_ she was trapped and for a fleeting moment her mind conjured images of a coffin.

She was already dead and this was her casket, she was dead and they were going to bury her in the ground forever.

_Breathe_. She commanded herself, forcing air around the gag and through her clogged nose. _Breathe. Breathe. You aren't dead. Breathe. Calm down. This isn't a coffin. Breathe. You're moving; this must be the trunk of a car. Breathe. Oh God, oh god, oh god . . . _

Time lost meaning for Danae as she focused solely on breathing what little stale air was available, forcing her body to relax until, unceremoniously, she was hauled out of the trunk and dropped onto the hard, cold ground.

o()o

Arturo Mendoza reclined in his comfortable leather chair, his feet propped up on the polished rosewood desk, flipping through a stack to papers taken from the briefcase in front of him as he listened to the television drone on in the background.

The briefcase was made of beautiful black leather, adorned with silver latches and locks and Arturo's experienced eye priced it well above your average _caballero's_ briefcase. The FBI agent had good taste, he had to admit.

Most of the papers inside were meaningless to him, police reports, official documents and the like but a newspaper clipping caught his eye, and Arturo plucked it from the stack, frowning as he read.

It was an article describing the most recent attack on the _Sacerdotes De la Calle_, haphazardly cut from one of the more prominent local newspapers and detailing the attack in macabre detail. Reading about his dead soldiers, Arturo felt a surprising beat of remorse and unconsciously crossed himself.

_So much death,_ he thought, skimming over the names of his fallen _familia, is this really worth the cost I have paid? _

As quickly as the thought surfaced, he buried again. Of course this was worth it, it was worth whatever cost he had to pay, no matter how dear.

Setting the article aside, he closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the television. The actor's deep voice filled his office, surrounding him like dark velvet.

_"The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the iniquities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he, who in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother's keeper and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon thee." _

He smiled as he listened to the words; they seemed to be particularly fitting in his case; in all actuality, the entire passage seemed to be written just for him tonight. He would lead the _Sacerdotes De la Calle_ through these trials as he had led them through so many before this, he would find the men that had harmed his _familia _and make them suffer for their malice, and once Absolution hit the street he would be A god among the _ovejas_.

Shuffling through the briefcase, Arturo discovered a file at the very bottom, buried under the other papers. It was tattered and dog-eared, stained with fingerprints and what looked like coffee, a stark contrast to the rest of the crisp, professional documents the briefcase housed. Pulling out the file, he read the neatly printed label.

MacManus, Connor/ Murphy.

Opening the folder he found several more newspaper clippings, every one of them detailing an attack on some Mafia family, an attack that sounded exactly like the ones that had befallen his _Sacerdotes. _

The file began to tremble slightly in Arturo's hands. Here were the men that were targeting his people, the men that were destroying his life's endeavor bullet by bullet. MacManus, Connor and Murphy.

In the very back of the folder he discovered a single, grainy, black and white photo of two men standing back to back, guns drawn as they faced the camera. By the expression on the men's faces, Arturo was certain that the fate of the photographer hadn't been a pleasant one.

Staring at the photo meditatively, he made a quiet noise of annoyance as the door to his office burst open. Didn't anyone have the courtesy to knock anymore?

Tomas and Ramiro, oblivious to their _Jefe's_ irritation, came in carrying a feebly struggling bundle that could only be a person and abruptly dropped it on the floor in front of him where it landed with a muffled cry.

Tomas bent over, black eyes flashing maliciously as he ripped the sack from the bundle's head, revealing a dark haired girl, eyes enormous and frightened.

Arturo gave the girl a brief once-over then turned admonishing eyes to the men that flanked her. "Tomas," he chided, "Ramiro, what is this? Have you no manners coming into my office like this? What are you doing dumping her here like garbage? What do you want me to do with her at this time of night?"

Seeing the men exchange confused glances, Arturo sighed. "Take her out of here now; I will deal with her in the morning."

Shaking his head, Arturo pinched the bridge of his nose. Tomas's only saving grace was that he was Esteban's brother and Arturo had been a close friend of their mother's in Columbia.

He consoled himself that the remaining underbosses and all the actual important members of the _Sacerdotes De la Calle_ would arrive from Columbia as soon as the preparations were complete. They would replace the fools he was working with and deal with these trivial matters from then on.

Tomas grabbed the girl, hauling her roughly to her feet. Giving her a hard push, snickering when she stumbled, he navigated her to the door, Ramiro following close behind, his thin shoulders hunched, his head bowed.

Arturo held up a hand, halting them both. "Boys!" he said, "That is no way to treat a lady. Nobody can respect a man who treats a woman poorly. Remember that.

Giving Arturo the condescending eye-roll that only belligerent young people seemed to be able to manage, Tomas gave the girl another, albeit gentler, push toward the door. Ramiro at least had the good sense to look chagrined as he nodded his agreement to Arturo's words.

"Sorry, Señor Mendoza," he mumbled, staring at his shoes.

"Did you to leave the message like I told you to do?"

Both men nodded. "_Si._" They said in perfect unison and he smiled at them.

"Excellent. Now go, _vete_."

Turning his attention back to the black and white photo in his hand, Arturo smiled at the two scowling men.

"You are hard men to kill." He said softly, "but now I have something of yours and a completely different way to make you bleed. You have survived gunshots and explosions but we'll see how strong you are when I make you listen to your _novia's_ dying screams."

Thoughtfully studying the photograph, Arturo's smile widened, it really was a very nice picture.

When all this was said and done, he might just have it framed.

o()o


	28. Chapter 28

o()o

_**Author's Note: **This chapter is dedicated to everyone who is sitting at home on this fine Saturday afternoon, bored out of their skulls, wishing there was something good on TV. I feel you, guys, I really, really do.  
**Nifty Fact for the day:** Yer wan (or yer one) is a term that means 'your woman'. It can also mean 'that woman over there', but for the sake of the story, Connor is calling Danae Murphy's woman._

o(28)o

Smecker just couldn't figure it out. He had spent the last day and a half harassing Townsend, only to have the detective tell him that he had never seen Croghan's report, that it had never come through the disposal area, but instead must have somehow slipped through the cracks.

But Smecker knew better. 47 kilos of cocaine didn't just slip through the cracks of anything. Something had happened to that drug shipment. When he told Townsend as much, using Croghan's report as added ammunition against the rookie's expected lies, Townsend had taken one look at the file and given it back to him.

"There's no stamp on this, which means that it was never filed with us." He dark haired man had said.

"So explain to me where 47 kilos of cocaine went, then wiseguy."

Townsend had shrugged dismissively. "Maybe there's another report somewhere that was done right."

But that was bullshit and they both knew it. Something had happened to those drugs between Croghan's perfectly detailed report and Townsend's desk at the incinerator. Shit like that didn't just disappear. But Townsend insisted that he was telling the truth and Smecker was back at square frigging one.

Now, sitting in bed, dark satin sheets puddling in his lap, Smecker frowned as the mystery nagged him, plaguing his mind and keeping him from drifting off to sleep. He hated it when things didn't make sense. One of the reasons he had become an agent was because he loved the feeling that came along with solving a case. Nothing was more satisfying than lining up the details and creating a perfect, rational, picture of exactly what happened.

Which sure as hell wasn't happening this time, no friggin' joke.

Beside him, Nigel slumbered soundly, having drifted off even before the sweat from their tryst had dried, and Smecker glanced over at the other man, debating on waking him for another bout, or as many as it took until he could sleep.

With a sigh he rejected the idea, Nigel was an artist in the sack, there was no doubt about it, but Smecker couldn't stand the look in the man's eyes, indifferent and detached, it reminded him too much of himself.

Untangling himself from bronzed limbs and satin sheets he reached for the remote, clicking the television to life and smiling when Pulp Fiction flickered onto the screen.

He would lick the floor of a gas station men's room before he admitted it, but Pulp Fiction was one of his favorite flicks. Oh, the things he would do to John Travolta given the chance.

Leaning back, he allowed the sight and sounds of the movie to wash over him in a soothing wave, distracting his beleaguered mind and easing the stress that he had come to identify with a difficult case. After several minutes, Jules' voice filled the bedroom.

_"The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the iniquities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he, who in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother's keeper and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon thee." _

Nigel stirred slightly at the words, turning away from Smecker and making a sleepy noise of distress, Smecker watched him with mild interest, wondering what ghosts haunted the Asian man's dreams.

Reaching for a cigarette and the file resting on his nightstand, he took a deep drag and opened the file to where he had left off. Staring at Croghan's spiky handwriting, rereading words he almost knew by heart, he kept coming back to the same questions.

Where the hell could 47 kilos of cocaine disappear to? What were the Street Priests doing trafficking cocaine to begin with? 47 kilos was just shy of one million dollars worth of drugs, and while that was no paltry sum, it was hardly worth the amount of men that had been killed at the first scene or the Street Priest's violent retaliation toward the Saints. Now if it had been 47 kilos of Absolution . . .

Smecker blinked as the notion hit him full force, 47 kilos of Absolution would be worth a hell of a lot more on the street. It would easily merit everything that had happened, but Croghan had said it was cocaine, the report said it had been cocaine and so had the disposal report.

The disposal report that had never been filed, one that had somehow just slipped through the friggin' cracks.

Frowning, Smecker flipped back through the file, reading the dates of all the reports. The earliest one had been filed in late spring when Croghan had taken over the Street Priests case. A few months later there was a report describing how the detective's previous partner had died, gunned down by one of the gangmembers who just happened to escape, along with the rest of the gang.

Something was wrong here.

Croghan was a good cop: smart, detailed, thorough, capable, and meticulous about everything that he did. It was inconceivable that some thug could blow away his partner of 15 years without him getting even the slightest physical description, and yet that's just what appeared to have happened.

The more Smecker read the details of the file before him, the more things appeared that seemed slightly off. Everything kept coming back to Croghan.

Oh, yeah, something was very, very wrong here.

o()o

Connor was worried about Murphy.

It was ritual to have at least one smoke break during any movie they watched, usually when Murphy got so restless for a fag that Connor couldn't stand him anymore. But this time his twin had been uncannily still through the picture, eyes heavy. He had shaken his head when Connor had offered him a cigarette, opting instead to stretch out wearily across the sofa, filling the spot his brother had just vacated, a throw pillow held to his chest.

Exhaling a cloud of smoke into the cold night sky, Connor turned and glanced back inside the apartment through the patio door. He could see his brother sprawled out on the sofa, sleeping again, and frowned.

For as long as Connor could remember, Murphy had never needed more than a few hours of sleep at a time. It was nothing for only three or four hours of rest to recharge his boundless energy, leaving him ready to face the day. Since their mission, however, Murphy had done little more than sleep. Add to that the constant headache he had, at times even bad enough to call a migraine and Connor had good reason for concern.

Murphy never complained, never said much about it actually, but Connor could see the pain in his brother's eyes and it worried him.

Stubbing out the last of his third cigarette, (or was it his fourth?) and stepping back inside, he paused in front of the TV, watching whatever was playing. He vaguely remembered the movie, but couldn't place the actor as his voice filled Danae's living room.

_"The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the iniquities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he, who in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother's keeper and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon thee." _

Shaking his head, Connor gave a derisive snort. "S'not even the real fuckin' passage, he murmured quietly. "Fuckin' Hollywood."

He walked over to the sofa, stopping to smooth his brother's hair back, torn between rousing him and letting him rest.

Murphy's brow furrowed and he stirred slightly. " Conn?"

"Hey. How're ye feeling?" asked Connor, softly.

Sitting up slowly, Murphy mashed a hand against his unbruised eye, rubbing. "Mmm . . . Do I have ta answer that right now?"

Seeing Connor's troubled look he recanted his words, offering his brother a crooked smile. "I could go fer a fuckin' smoke, but other than that I'm fine."

"Headache?" Connor asked, reaching for the aspirin bottle on the end table, an action he had repeated time and again over the last week.

Murphy reached out, placing a warm hand over his. "No, I'm okay."

"Yer head doesn't hurt?"

Rolling his shoulders and cocking his head from side to side, Murphy grinned at him, "Nope."

"Thank fuckin' God." Connor didn't mean for the words to slip out, or the sigh of relief, but somehow they escaped from him, making his brother chuckle.

"Ye're such a fuckin' worrywart."

"I am not!" Connor protested, feeling a grin of his own tugging at the corners of his mouth, maybe Murphy would be okay after all.

"Ye are so; if ye keep it up like ye are, I'm goin' ta have ta start callin' ye 'Ma'," Said Murphy, his eyes sparkling and mischievous.

"Fuck off, Murph."

Grinning, Murphy got to his feet, dipping into Connor's coat pocket for a cigarette. "What time is it anyway?"

Connor chuckled, picking up the meaning behind his brother's words. "It's not time for her ta be home yet, ye've got a couple more hours."

"If she'll fuckin' speak ta me." For a moment, Murphy looked so despondent that Connor couldn't help but reach out and pat his arm affectionately.

"Let's go and grab somethin' ta eat and see if she'll have her lunch with us, you know, ta celebrate yer brain bein' okay and all.

"There's never been anything wrong with me fuckin' brain, ye eejit," said Murphy, brightening as he rose to his brother's bait.

"That's fuckin' debatable." Connor muttered, grinning as he dodged his brother's hand.

"Fucker," Murphy said good-naturedly. "But it's a good idea ye have there, we can grab those sandwiches she likes at the all-night deli, the ones with the salami."

Despite his best intentions, Connor made a face at the thought. It was just one more thing Danae had in common with his brother, their love of disgusting food combinations. At least Danae's didn't involve pickles and onion, he thought grimacing.

Grabbing his brother's jacket, Connor tossed it to him. "C'mon, let's go see yer wan."

o()o

The emergency room was complete chaos. There were several police cars parked there and many of the night staff milled around outside with the quiet numbness that comes with being struck by tragedy.

Connor and Murphy exchanged a worried glance, turning as one to scan the crowd for Danae.

"She's not fuckin' out here." Murphy said, bringing his thumb to his mouth, eyes flicking from face to face, searching.

"Maybe inside."

Carefully weaving their way around the clusters of cops taking statements, they came to the front desk only to find someone that wasn't Danae sitting there.

"Can I help you?" she asked quietly, shooting a worried glance over toward the rooms.

"What happened here?" Connor asked and the girl shook her head, short blonde hair fluttering around her face.

"Someone attacked one of our nurses." She said succinctly and Connor got the impression that she wasn't supposed to talk about whatever had happened. "Do you need to be seen?" She asked, her tone softening a little, her expression apologetic.

"You're still seeing patients?" Murphy's voice was incredulous.

"The ER can't close; we have to be able to see patients no matter what. Can I get your name, please? I can't register you without it."

"We don't fuckin' need ta be seen." Murphy said, his voice rising, and Connor put a soothing hand on the back of his twin's neck.

"We're just looking for the night lass." He said, offering the girl an apologetic smile. "Danae."

The girl shook her head. "I just started and don't really know anybody by name yet. But there was nobody here when they called me in."

Exchanging a glance with his brother, Connor nodded, already turning away from the desk. "All right, thanks anyway."

"Sure." She said, smiling wanly at them. "Hey, wait! You said Danae right?"

They turned back to face her, "Yeah, so?" Murphy said.

"Are you her family?"

Murphy opened his mouth to speak, but Connor beat him to it. "Aye." He said. "We are."

"There's something here for you." She held up an orange manilla envelope. "Isn't that a funny coincidence?"

Taking the envelope, Murphy frowned as he read the hastily scribbled words on the front. Pressing a hand against his twin's lower back, Connor leaned in to read the words over his shoulder.

_To the Family of Danae Pierce_.

"We're the next best thing." Connor said softly to his brother.

Hands shaking, Murphy tore open the large envelope, looking inside. "Oh my god." He gasped, the blood draining from his face.

Connor barely had time to reach out, supporting his brother as Murphy took a stumbling step backwards, knees buckling, making a noise in the back of this throat like he might be sick.

"Murph?" when his brother didn't reply, Connor wrapped an arm around him, leading him away from the desk, feeling his twin trembling violently. "Murphy, what the fuck?"

Swallowing, running a hand through his hair, Murphy dropped into one of the waiting room chairs and held the envelope toward Connor, pressing his other hand against his lips.

As Connor reached to take the package, their fingers brushed and he noticed that Murphy's normally warm hands were cold as ice.

Looking inside the envelope, Connor felt his stomach constrict in a nauseating heave and understood his twin's reaction, certain he was doing something similar.

Inside was a huge chunk of long dark hair, coiling around itself like a sinister snake, and a bracelet he had seen several times around Danae's wrist.

The bracelet Murphy had lost the night of the mission.

"They've fuckin' got her." Murphy choked out, his voice muffled by his fingers. "Connor, they fuckin' took her."

Reigning in his turbulent emotions, Connor drew in a deep breath. He had to be the one to keep it together. He had to be strong for his brother. Had to be strong for Murphy.

"Aye." He whispered, blotting suddenly damp palms on his jeans. "But we'll find her and we'll get her back."

Looking inside the envelope again, fighting the sickening feeling twisting around his heart at the sight of her hair, Connor pulled out the bracelet and was surprised to see a small scrap of paper caught in the silver wire.

It took a moment to work up the nerve to unfold that scrap of paper, and as he did he was aware Murphy crying quietly behind him, Connor knew that to onlookers his brother appeared composed and stoic, but he could feel nearly imperceptible hitches in his twin's breathing and detect the tiny anguished noises Murphy was making under his breath.

Written on the scrap of paper there was a single word, scribbled in the same hasty handwriting as the envelope.

_Wait. _

o()o


	29. Chapter 29

o()o

_**Author's Note:** Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed so far. You guys are the best, you know that?  
**Nifty Fact for the Day:** Taytos are an Irish brand of potato chips. It kind of takes on the general meaning of all different brands of chips, like Kleenex does with tissue._

o(29)o

Connor should have known what was coming.

Murphy had been unnaturally silent during their hasty walk back to Danae's apartment, both of them knowing instinctually that it was where they needed to be. Connor could feel the tension radiating off his brother in waves and Murphy's already frantic fidgets had intensified until he was a noiseless symphony of movement.

Bursting through the front door, his twin went straight for his black duffel bag, wrenching it from its hiding place behind the couch and pulling out his guns, setting them on the well-used coffee table, his face unreadable.

"What the fuck are ye doin'?" Connor asked.

Murphy stopped, looking at him as though he had lost his mind. "We're fuckin' goin' ta get her."

"Murph, we don't know where the fuck she is."

"Then we'll fuckin' find her." Murphy said, his voice strangely calm.

"We've got fuck all squared ta go on ta find her," Connor protested. "The note said ta wait anways." They had the disadvantage now; it was wiser to hold off doing anything until they had something to go on, some idea of what to do.

"Fuck the note!" Murphy yelled, whirling on his brother. "They've fuckin' got Danae. I'm not goin' ta wait around until they fuckin' decide to hurt her."

Reaching out, Connor placed a firm hand on his twin's shoulder, startled by Murphy's mercurial change in temperament. "Get a fuckin' hold of yerself, man. There's nothing we can do right now."

"Fuck you!" Murphy shouted, slapping the hand away, his eyes bright and angry.

"Murphy!"

"I fuckin' said we're going ta get her! Either ye fuckin' go with me or I go the fuck alone!"

"Fine!" Connor yelled back, his patience finally splintering. "We'll go out roamin' the fuckin' streets lookin' fer her and when those motherfuckers call and we don't answer and then they decide to fuckin' kill her . . ."

The blow came swift and hard, knocking Connor back a few steps. Raising a hand to his mouth and drawing away bloody fingertips, Connor looked at Murphy wrathfully. His brother's eyes were deadly, his face colorless and tense.

"Don't fuckin' say that." Murphy ground out. "How could ye fuckin' say somethin' like that?"

"Because it's the fuckin' truth, and you fuckin' know it."

With a cry that was born more of grief than fury Murphy launched himself at his brother, fists connecting solidly. For a moment, a real brawl raged between the two with hard, forceful punches being thrown and received, they fought without speaking, their normal insults and curses lost in the ferocity of the struggle.

Then Connor saw the look in Murphy's eyes.

His brother needed this, needed to release some of the pressure that had been building since he had opened that envelope in the hospital. Carefully, Connor blocked the flurry of blows with open hands, but threw no more of his own.

_Get it out o' yer system._ He encouraged his twin silently. _Get it out now, Murph._

Finally, his breathing ragged and his fists clenched Murphy stopped, staring down at his brother prone on the floor. Connor watched as the anger in his twin's eyes shattered, leaving behind only fear and helplessness.

"Fuck." The word rushed out in a tremulous sigh and he knew that Murphy was finished.

Slowly rising to his feet, daubing at his now bloodied nose, Connor reached into his pocket to produce a pack of cigarettes, tapping two out. It was a gesture that had signified the ending of a fight for as long as either twin could remember.

Even before they had discovered smoking, when the peace offering had been a candy bar split in two or bag of Taytos, the act of sharing something easily bridged whatever gaps the dispute had left behind, and by the time the offering was finished, neither brother could bring to mind what the fight had been about to begin with.

As they grew older, the act of smoking in even-tempered silence became a balm that soothed away harsh words even as the nicotine soothed their sometimes painful bruises.

Murphy reached out toward his brother, eyes pleading. "Connor, I . . ."

Connor shook his head, offering his twin a cigarette and giving him a fond pat on the back. "Don't." he said softly. "Get the phone, now and c'mon outside."

Nodding, shakily, Murphy picked up the telephone from its cradle and looked at Connor, his heart in his eyes. Connor slipped an arm around his brother's shoulders, feeling the slight tremors running through his body.

"C'mon." he said again, gently. "Everything will be all right."

They smoked in quiet, Connor reaching out occasionally to comfort his twin, not missing the fleeting, remorseful glances that Murphy tossed his way from time to time.

The dissonant ring of the phone disturbed the dense silence, startling both brothers. Connor grabbed the phone, aware of Murphy next to him, eyes wide and apprehensive.

"Hello?"

"Mr. MacManus." A smooth voice on the other side of the line purred. "Am I speaking with Connor or Murphy?"

"What the fuck does it matter?" asked Connor, incensed.

Across the line came the unmistakable sound of a cry of pain and Connor knew with stomach-dropping certainty that it was Danae's. Those motherfuckers!

"It matters." The voice said.

"Connor!" he shouted into the phone. "Yer talkin' ta Connor."

"That's better. Connor, as I'm sure you've noticed, I have your friend . . ."

"Let me fuckin' talk ta her!"

"Mr. MacManus," the words were followed by a piercing, sobbing, scream.

The scream came clearly through the receiver and Murphy drew in a sharp breath gripping Connor's shoulder hard enough to bruise. "Jesus fuckin' Christ!"

"I don't think you fully understand the situation here." The voice continued, still calm and sleek.

"Danae!" Connor shouted into the phone, clutching the handset, aware of Murphy echoing his words. "Danae!"

Connor could hear her crying in the background so close and yet so far away, and, after a moment, realized that she was sobbing his name over and over.

"You motherfucker!" he yelled into the phone, knuckles curving white around the handset "What the fuck do ye want?"

"Want?" The voice sounded genuinely surprised and Danae gave another pained scream, this time closer. "You don't understand. This young lady is an insurance policy, so to speak."

"What the fuck's that supposed ta mean?"

"Well, you already have a nice lock of hair to remember her by. If you, or your brother, decide to cause any more trouble for me I'll send you something else that belongs to her, maybe a finger or, perhaps, her head."

This time Danae's voice was clear and close. "No," she gasped, and Connor could hear the terror in her tone. "Please, no. Oh, God."

"Danae!" Connor yelled as the line went dead.

Letting the phone slip from his suddenly nerveless fingers, he turned to Murphy, breathing ragged.

His twin was unnaturally white, his eyes dark and stormy and idly Connor wondered if he himself looked as stricken. Swallowing he ran a trembling hand through his hair and forced the words past the bile rising in his throat.

"Murphy, Get yer guns."

o()o

The first thing Danae learned while under the 'care' of the Street Priests was that it was a very bad idea to cry when your mouth was duct-taped shut. She had spent the first several hours dizzy from lack of oxygen, panicked, and disoriented. The room she was in was small, dark, and, not much better than the trunk she had arrived in, offering only a tiny window too high to reach. Not that she could do much even if she could reach it, mind you.

After the initial shock wore off, the almost paralyzing fear settled in but she couldn't cry because, as terrified as she was, the idea of asphyxiation was worse.

The second thing she learned was that trying to be brave only made them hit harder. They had beaten her phone number out of her before taping her mouth shut and when she refused to relinquish her address, open-handed slaps had turned to fists. She was battered and bruised but so far, nothing seemed to be broken, and they still didn't know where she lived. Connor and Murphy were out of harm's way, for now.

Her back ached from long hours curled up on the cold floor and her hands had long since gone numb from being bound behind her back, the only indication that they were still there at all was the occasional bite of whatever they had used to tether her against the already raw skin of her wrists.

When the door swung open, illuminating two large silhouettes standing there, Danae cringed away from them, knowing that whatever was about to happen couldn't be good.

They dragged her out of the tiny room and across a large hallway, shoving her roughly into a chair before propping her up in it. The overpowering smell of smoke clogged the air and a man stepped into her line of sight, a thick cigar between his fingers.

He looked more suited to the stock market than a Columbian drug cartel, dressed in an impeccable business suit, his salt and pepper hair neatly slicked back.

"Miss Pierce." He said, his voice soft and accented as he held up a telephone handset, taking a deep inhalation from his cigar. "You are about to be very useful."

Pressing a series of buttons on the telephone, the man paused and Danae felt her heart stop when he spoke.

"Mr. MacManus. Am I speaking with Connor or Murphy?"

There was another brief silence as the man listened. He gave an amused smile into the receiver and then nodded to a thug behind her.

In a quick, brutal motion, the thug ripped the tape from her mouth, the adhesive taking a fair amount of skin along with it.

Crying out at the sudden sting, she could feel the warm slickness of blood trickling across her lips from where the tape had torn the sensitive skin there and realized, with horror, that this was just the beginning.

"It matters." The man said into the receiver, his smile broadening. "That's better. Connor, as I'm sure you've noticed, I have your friend . . ."

The man frowned as he listened, shaking his head. "Mr. MacManus," he said, his tone chiding, and the thug landed a sharp blow against Danae's already bruised shoulder, sending exquisite pain arcing up into her neck and down to her fingers.

For a blinding moment, she was certain he had broken something, snapping through bone like a matchstick, but he hadn't. He'd moved the once dislocated joint just enough to provoke the agony he wanted.

"I don't think you fully understand the situation here." The sleek man continued, taking another puff off of his cigar.

The man moved closer to her and she could barely hear Connor's voice across the line, yelling to her, his voice tinged with desperation. She sobbed his name like a prayer wondering how hope could be so close yet so far away.

Please find me. . .please please please find me. . . please please please. . . .

"Want?" The man's eyebrows shot up toward his graying hairline and he chuckled slightly walking up to studying the burning end of his cigar thoughtfully, "You don't understand. This young lady is an insurance policy, so to speak."

The man was so close to her now she could hear Connor's voice, but the words were garbled. Idly he tapped the ash of the end of the cigar and brought the freshly glowing cherry dangerously close to her skin

"Well," the man responded to whatever Connor had said, "you already have a nice lock of hair to remember her by, if you or your brother decide to cause any more trouble for me I'll send you something else of hers. Maybe a finger or, perhaps, her head."

Holding the phone up to Danae's mouth, he slowly brought the burning end of the cigar closer to her until it was only a breath away from her face. She could feel the heat of it against her cheek and tossed her head back and forth, trying to escape the glowing ember.

The man's face was solemn as he rotated the tip bringing it alarmingly close to her eye, and she froze, terrified, blinking against the ash that clung to her eyelashes, tears making the cherry sizzle.

"No," she gasped, trying to recoil from the cigar, "Please, no. Oh, God."

There was the telltale beep of the call being ended and the cigar was withdrawn. Sobbing, with relief and fear, her breaths coming in frantic little bursts, Danae saw dark spots dance before her eyes as her tentative grasp on consciousness began to slip.

"You did very well, Miss Pierce." The man said as her world went dark. "It's going to be such a pity when I actually do have to kill you."

o()o


	30. Chapter 30

o()o

_**Author's Note:** Happy 30th Chapter guys! Yeah, I know this is a speedy update, but I'm an attention whore, so what can you do?  
Nifty Fact for the Day: Cosa is Spanish for thing, Malparido means bastard or son-of-a-bitch_

o(30)o

The loud pounding on his hotel room door jolted Smecker out of his dismal excuse for sleep. Groaning, he slid out of bed, reaching for a robe that was haphazardly tossed over one of the chairs.

_This had better be good._ He thought irritably, _this had better be the friggin' end of the world as we know it_.

Tying the robe securely around his waist, he flung open the door, ready to give whoever had the balls to hassle him this early an earful. The friggin' sun wasn't even up yet for God's sake and here this asshole was . . .

The angry words he had been planning died on his tongue when he saw Connor and Murphy standing in the doorway, their faces drawn and grim. Both men were fully dressed and Smecker could tell that, under their thick coats, they were both wearing their guns.

His gut immediately went cold at the sight of the brothers. "What's happened?" he asked, gesturing them inside

"They took Danae." Murphy's voice was choked and Smecker watched as Connor placed a comforting hand on the back of his brother's neck, squeezing slightly.

There was no need to ask who _they_ were, but Smecker's sleep numbed mind was still a little reluctant to catch on to what Murphy was saying. "The girl?"

"Aye. They took her from her job and left us a chunk of her fuckin' hair as a warning." Connor said, his voice low.

Frowning, Smecker ran a hand over his face, trying to force himself further into wakefulness. "Why her?"

The brothers exchanged a glance, some lightning fast message being relayed, and Murphy looked down at his shoes. "Because o' me." He said softly.

"You?"

"Don't make me spell it out for ye, Smecker."

_Oh._

"Someone must've connected her ta us." Connor continued, again reaching out to console his twin.

Throughout the conversation Murphy had grown paler with each word spoken, his eyes stricken and pained; and Connor, although undoubtedly unthinkingly, mirrored his brother each time Murphy winced.

"What the hell happened here, you guys?" he said, "I can't help you properly if I don't know the whole story."

Connor sighed, "The fellows that took Danae called us. They. . ." He stopped, swallowing, "They hurt her so we could hear it."

"Jesus Christ." Smecker grimaced at the idea and Murphy made a quiet noise of distress deep in his throat. "How did they find her?"

"I lost something she had given me at the warehouse during the mission." Murphy said, the words coming out barely above a whisper, "The fuckin' thing was in the envelope with her hair, and someone must o' found it and recognized it."

"Impossible." Smecker said. "That scene hasn't even been cleared yet. Nobody but the police gets in until then, and nothing like that has been turned in as evidence."

"Besides," Connor interjected "We didn't leave anyone alive ta find it. There's no way . . ."

Connor was still speaking, but Smecker missed the words as the last puzzle piece clicked into place in his mind. If there were only cops allowed at the scene and all the Street Priests were dead then it only made sense that a cop had found the bracelet.

A cop, working with the Street Priests, someone who had access not only to this latest crime scenes, but the previous ones as well. Someone who had access to all the records and reports and could alter them as needed.

And there it was, that sensation of lining up the dozens of tiny details and creating a perfect, rational, picture of exactly what happened. He couldn't help but smile; damn he loved that feeling.

_Eureka. _

"What's so fuckin' funny?" Murphy's eyes had gone dangerously dark, losing the rueful look he'd been wearing since they had arrived beside him Connor stiffened also eyes narrowing as he frowned.

"I think I know who to talk to about your friend."

"What the fuck are ye talkin' about?"

Sighing, Smecker ran a hand through his hair, "Let's just get down to the precinct, I'll explain along the way."

Connor opened his mouth to reply, but stopped short, eyes widening as he glanced at something behind Smecker, his eyebrows darting up towards his hairline. Looking, the agent noticed a matching expression spreading across Murphy's features and the brothers shared a fleeting, amused look.

Glancing behind him, Smecker saw Nigel standing there, cigarette in hand, naked as the day he was born.

The Asian man lifted an impish eyebrow. "Old boyfriends?" he inquired, dark eyes flitting from Connor to Murphy.

The twins exchanged another glance, this one less amused and more alarmed.

"No!" they both exclaimed as one, eyes wide.

Turning, Smecker gave Nigel a hard smack to his backside. "Get dressed and get out."

Unperturbed, Nigel took a drag off of his cigarette and blew the smoke in Smecker's face

"Bitch." He said coyly before turning and sauntering off, humming under his breath.

Fighting the blood that was trying to rush to his face, Smecker returned his attention to the MacManuses, who were looking at him with identical knowing expressions.

"Knock it off." He snapped. "We have work to do."

o()o

Bill Croghan was having a downright shitty day. The chief had dragged him out of bed at the ass-crack of dawn to go and inspect some dump of a crime scene at the other end of town, apparently the detective who was supposed to be there was off with his wife, having a baby or some shit like that. It was a shame that the week had started off so well only to end so poorly.

He'd gone to Arturo at the beginning of the week delighted with what he had found in the FBI agent's briefcase. That faggot had been working with the sons of bitches that were taking out the Street Priests all along and now he had proof. He could take Smecker down _and_ had just given Arturo his vigilantes.

It couldn't have been more perfect

He had been examining the bracelet thoughtfully as Arturo made plans on finding these men through the FBI agent when a dark, oily, hand had shot out, grabbing his wrist.

"Where the fuck did you get that?" the greaseball holding his wrist had sneered.

"None of your goddamn business," Croghan had snapped back, trying to reclaim his hand, but the schmuck had held on, wrenching his hand up for Arturo to see.

"I've seen this before Señor Mendoza," the asswipe had said, his spiteful grin showing teeth that had, at best, had a nodding acquaintance with a toothbrush in the past year.

"Let me go you candy-assed moron."

Arturo had stopped mid-sentence, giving both men a look usually reserved for the guardians of squabbling children. "Bring it here." He had said softly, dark eyebrows arching.

Snatching the bracelet from Croghan's hand, the greasy piece of shit had practically _skipped_ up to Arturo, dangling it in front of the older man's face.

"Where did you get this?" Arturo had asked Croghan, his face still deceptively calm.

"The warehouse," Croghan had replied, beginning to sweat under the Spaniard's intense stare, "While I was investigating this latest attack."

"I've seen this _cosa _before!" the shit-eater had repeated, his voice rising in excitement.

"So you've mentioned, Tomas." Arturo had said, holding out his hand for the bracelet. Croghan had to give the man credit; the bastard had the patience of a saint for dealing with prats like these. Dimly he wondered why, aside from a select few, most of the _Sacerdotes _seemed to be dangerously close to brain-damaged. "Where?"

"When Carlos and I was at the hospital, looking for those _m__alparidos_ that took out the first shipment! The bitch at the desk was wearing it."

Arturo had cocked an interested eyebrow. "Are you certain?"

"_Si_. She was typing and her fingers were going so fast and Carlos said he'd like to have hands that fast wrapped around his . . ."

"I see." The older man had interrupted, giving the shitstain a disdainful look before turning his attention to Croghan. "And you're certain that his was at the warehouse?"

Croghan had simply nodded his reply.

Turning his attention to the bright rainbow of crystal beads in his hand, Arturo had given a ghost of a smile. "Then, Tomas, I think you should get Ramiro and pay a visit to the hospital as soon as you're able. Bring this girl to me; I want to see what she knows about our vigilantes."

Now, drinking coffee that could be used to run a lawnmower, looking at the chalk outline and splatter of blood where a body used to be, Croghan sighed. It really was time to retire. From being a detective on the force, from being an associate of the _Sacerdotes, _from everything. It was only a matter of time until the shit he was messing with got him killed.

"Detective Croghan?"

Looking toward the voice, he suppressed the urge to groan seeing Agent Queer-As-A-Football-Bat Smecker standing just outside the yellow tape, beckoning to him.

"What can I do for you, Agent?" The words were civil enough, but Croghan didn't have the energy to fake his normal pleasantries this morning.

"You can come with me for a minute." Apparently, the agent didn't have the energy for phony cheer either.

Sighing wearily, Croghan made his way over to Smecker, frowning. After so long on the force, he had honed a sort of instinct for danger, a sixth sense that warned him of approaching peril. It had saved his live more than once during his career.

Maybe it was the early morning, or maybe he was just getting old, but by the time that instinct kicked in, Croghan's arm was firmly twisted behind his back and there was the cold barrel of a gun pressed against the back of his head.

"Let's have a chat." A thickly lilting voice sneered in his ear as he was hauled away from the crime scene and into a shadowy alley nearby. "And if yer thinkin' about callin' out, me brother here will happily blow yer fuckin' head off afore ye get a fuckin' breath drawn."

The gun against his head dug in painfully to illustrate the point being made and Croghan nodded, trying to keep calm. That painstakingly honed, but apparently pretty goddamn rusty, sixth sense was now screaming that he was in serious trouble.

"Let's talk about the girl." A new voice said behind his ear. The lilt, Mick by the sound of it, was the same as the first voice, but the unadulterated malice in the new tone made a shudder try to skitter its way up Croghan's spine.

"I don't know anything about a girl."

"Wrong fuckin' answer." The second voice snarled and Croghan heard the telltale sound of the gun being cocked. "Try the fuck again."

"A girl." A sharp rap of the gun against his skull punctuated the first speaker's words. "She worked at the hospital." _Rap. _"Her name is Danae." _Rap. _"And ye turned her over ta the fuckin' Street Priests."

"That wasn't my intention." The words earned him vicious shake.

"The fuck it wasn't!" the second voice shouted angrily. "Do ye know what they're doin' ta her? Do ye have any fuckin' idea . . ."

"Murph." The first voice said softly, a gentle warning.

"Murph?" Croghan repeated, "Listen, Murph, I don't know who told you I had anything to do with this girl's kidnapping, but I didn't."

"Ye picked up her fuckin' bracelet at the warehouse, didn't ye?" The fist voice was calmer than the second, but Croghan could still hear the anger bubbling just under the surface of the words.

He closed his eyes as realization gave him a sharp kick in the balls. Here were his vigilantes. He'd spent so much time looking for them it had never occurred to him that they'd be looking for him as well. But they had found him first and he could tell that they weren't bluffing about blowing his brains out. He was eyeballs deep in shit now.

"Yeah." He said weakly. "I found it."

"And ye took it to the Street Priests?"

"Yeah." _Damn_. The _Sacerdotes_ had screwed him royally this time; there was no way he was going to talk his way out of this disaster.

"Then I'd say ye fuckin' had everything ta do with her bein' taken."

"And now yer goin' ta tell us where the fuck she is." Murph chimed in, his tone changing from smoldering fury to icy rage with startling speed.

"I don't know where she is!"

"Lyin's a sin, detective." The gun barrel bit deeper into his scalp and Croghan felt a wet trickle of blood where the skin had split. A forceful kick to the back of his legs drove him to his knees and he froze when the barrel of a second gun was pressed just inches away from the first.

"This is yer last fuckin' chance."

o()o

_**Author's Note II: **What do you guys think about Smecker and Nigel, is it worth a closer look?  
_


	31. Chapter 31

o()o

_**Author's Note: **Happy Friday to everybody out there in PCLand. I hope you have a wonderful weekend!_

o(31)o

Danae was going to die.

The men that dragged her to the bathroom and occasionally ripped the tape from her mouth to give her something to eat made sure she was well aware of the fact. They had been talking about it for the last day and a half, taunting her with threats and plans, and from what she could gather, it was going to happen tonight.

She had gone through all the typical stages of dying with startling speed.

Denial had been the shortest of them all, lasting less than an hour before reality set in. Nobody knew where she was, even if Murphy and Connor were looking for her, they would never find her in time. These men were going to kill her, they'd probably hurt her first just to be thorough, then they would make her scream and bleed until either there was no more air in her lungs or blood in her body.

She had slipped easily from denial to black fury, when the talks of her death continued. Rage, thick and oily filled her to the very brim, and she _hated_. She hated the men that were going to take her life away before she had even gotten the chance to live it and she hated Murphy and Connor for getting her into this and abandoning her. Screaming against the tape that covered her mouth, slamming her already bruised body against the door, she had earned a couple of vicious backhands after biting one of the men that tried to retape her mouth and spitting his own blood defiantly back into his face.

Bargaining slipped past her in a flurry of thoughts, life was so precious, there was so much that she loved about this world, so much she hadn't done yet and so many people she wished she could have talked to just once more. She was sure she should pray, it seemed like the right thing to do, but instead she found herself pleading with the missing MacManus brothers.

_Please find me. . .I swear I'll do anything if you only find me. . .please, please, please find me . . ._

Depression and acceptance melded together in an ebbing, flowing, war with one another and she wished she had taken out the time to fill out a living will, but she was still so young and had never, ever expected to die before her thirtieth birthday. Her last wishes would go unheard and her life would be over as if it had never been.

Now, as the sun dipped below the horizon, searing the sky with colors only nature could manage, she thought that the pinks and oranges seemed a little more vibrant than previous days' and the blue that was slowly seeping into the brighter colors seemed a little closer to the color of Murphy's eyes.

She wished that she could have seen just one more sunrise, one more chance to see the world wake up refreshed and new, the thought sent a painful jolt through her. There would be no more clean slates and no more sunrises for her. Not ever.

Tears again slipping down her cheeks, She carefully compiled a list of things to remember before she died, memories to be grateful for, and to cling to when things reached their worst before she left this world behind.

She wanted to remember the way her mother's perfume smelled, her father's smile, Connor's laugh, raspy and warm, Murphy's voice, softer and gentler than his brother's. She wanted to hold on to the memory of Connor's hand ruffling her hair and Murphy's mouth when he kissed her that certain way that took her breath away.

_Hang on to these things._ She reminded herself, unable to stop a tiny sob from escaping, _Mom, Dad, Murphy, Connor, never let them go._

Trying to control the sobs that were now threatening to tear through her, tears flowing freely down her face as the sky darkened, she conjured a picture of Murphy and Connor bright in her mind, laughing and joking.

_Mom, Dad, Murphy, Connor . . . happy memories, peaceful times . . ._

The heavy door opened revealing two growingly familiar silhouettes, the thugs assigned to 'guard' her. Danae heard a far off church bell toll the hour, forlorn and abandoned, and shuddered, her list of comforts forgotten the face of her own mortality.

It was time.

o()o

Smecker was exhausted.

The MacManus brothers had woken him from his first chance at rest in two friggin' days and he hadn't been to sleep since. He'd tried, but every time he closed his eyes, he realized that there were a thousand more things to worry about and a thousand and one more things to plan for. He had a sinking feeling that no matter how this ordeal went the ending wouldn't be a happy one.

He had watched as the Saints forced Detective Bill Croghan to his knees in some darkened alleyway and made the older man confess what he knew only to haul him to his feet again, shoving him away in an irrational gesture of mercy. But not before muttering something into the detective's ear.

When Smecker had questioned their motives for doing something so reckless, Murphy had turned to face him and Smecker hoped he never saw the expression that was on the dark-haired man's face directed at himself or anyone he ever cared about. It had been both feral in its intensity and chilling in its hate.

"He'll have fuckin' his day." Murphy had said roughly before brushing past Smecker and falling into step with his brother, who was already walking away, his dark coat billowing out behind him.

Smecker didn't doubt the truth behind the dark-haired man's words for a minute, and judging from the way the blood drained from Croghan's face, the detective didn't either.

Now, 48 sleepless hours later he checked and rechecked his gun, musing on how history was so liable to repeat itself. Once again, he found himself irrevocably involved in the world of the Saints, teetering in the edge of the precipice spanning right and wrong and readying himself to take the plunge, blindfolded, unsure which side of the frighteningly fine line he would come to rest on.

_Well, at least I'm not dressed as a friggin' woman this time,_ he thought, darkly amused.

Somewhere not too far away he heard a church bell toll the hour, weary and archaic, and shivered, his dark amusement fading away like smoke. There was a leap of faith to be taken and he could only hope that he landed on the right side.

It was time.

o()o

Arturo Mendoza knew that something was about to happen.

He could feel it in the air like some people could feel rain, the certainty that something was going to happen and, for better or worse, nobody that was involved would ever be the same. It was the same feeling he'd had the night Absolution was perfected, like the entire world was still and expectant, waiting for him.

His _acquaintance_ on the force had just left, giving Arturo a wild-eyed message in halting, jumbled Spanish. A warning from his vigilantes, saying that his time was drawing to a close and that they would be seeing him soon.

He studied the grainy photo from the FBI agent's briefcase thoughtfully, everything was working out just as he had planned, although granted a little earlier than he had expected.

Nevertheless, MacManus, Connor and Murphy had found a way to come for their _novia_, just like he knew they would. It was a pity she would already be dead by the time they got here.

It was less of a pity, however, that they wouldn't live much longer than she.

The idea of killing the dark haired girl sent a swift twist of regret through Arturo's gut. He didn't particularly want to put an end to her, she reminded him ever so slightly of his oldest granddaughter, still young and guiltless, lovely not merely in features (although they were certainly appealing enough) but because her soul shone in her eyes. Arturo regretted that he would have to be the one to make such rare eyes go cloudy and dull.

But, business was business and he had to make sure that the _Sacerdotes De la Calle_ thrived, no matter his personal preferences. Their faltering foothold in this city was slipping a little more every day and he couldn't afford another assault on his _familia_.

Above all things, his _familia_ came first.

They came first more now than ever because the rest of the _Sacerdotes_ were on their way to America and another diminutive shipment of Absolution, scavenged from the storehouses of his home in Columbia, coming with them. This was his last chance and he couldn't afford anything getting in the way.

Somewhere in the distance, a church bell tolled the hour, sounding resolute and enduring, and his regret melted away. It was all or nothing for his family, and he would give all.

It was time.

o()o

Connor refused to feel anything but collected.

Kneeling in the back pew of the church, rosary biting into his palm, Latin on his lips, he refused to let Danae's pained screams echo in his head, creating stomach-churning ripples through him. He refused to hear her sobbing his name like a prayer and her terrified whisper just before the call ended.

She was fine, he told himself sternly. They would come for her and get her the fuck out of there and everything would be fine. He couldn't think of it any other way.

He refused to think about the indignant anger that cop had stirred up in him. They were supposed to _uphold_ the fucking law, not help tear it down. He had wanted to shake the older man and ask him what the _fuck_ he was thinking getting involved in something like the Street Priests. How fucked up did you have to be to lead such a double life?

Most of all, he refused to worry about Murphy.

Connor had seen every mood that Murphy could conjure; he knew every facet of his twin as well as he knew himself. Hell, better than he knew himself.

From happy to angry, from nervous to grieving to puking his guts out after a night on the piss, Connor had been there for all of it. He could read his brother like a book, knowing what Murphy was thinking with a simple glance or touch, sometimes with even less than that.

But now, watching his twin pray, the light that shone through the church's stained glass windows turning Murphy into a sort of living kaleidoscope, Connor felt as though he were kneeling next to a stranger. This man clutched a rosary identical to his, and mouthed the same prayer in the same language as he did, but there was no trace of his high-spirited, energetic twin, this man was made of stone.

Shaking his head, rising to his feet he ignored the aching protestations of his leg and the whisper of disquiet in the back of his mind that was asking if maybe this entire ordeal had pushed his brother just too far. They'd get Danae back and everything would be fine. Everything had to be fine; he wouldn't let it be any other way.

All around him a church bell tolled the hour, sounding grim and determined, and Connor forced all the feelings away until he was calm and collected again. Ready.

It was time.

o()o

Murphy felt like a stone casing around molten lava.

Normally the church was a place of peace for him. The smell of incense and the patterns cast by the stained glass windows soothed his ever-changing moods. Talking to God gave him a stillness that nothing on this earth could.

Not so today.

He could feel the red-hot emotion bubbling over, eating away at his desperately maintained composure. His emotions flared and faded, each blending into the next with seamless ease before being burned away by the purest, most potent anger he had ever known.

He was going to kill every last one of those motherfuckers for what they had done.

Every.

Last.

One.

He was going to kill one Street Priest for every prayer that he had uttered while waiting for his brother to wake up in the hospital, for each time his twin had grimaced from the pain of their bullets, for every time they had hurt Danae, making her scream. He was going to be the vengeful striking hand of God and heaven itself couldn't help the person that tried to stop him.

He was aware of Connor watching him from the corner of his eye; he could feel his twin's concern glowing along the edges of his mind, a slightly different color than the red that had tinged Murphy's vision since Danae's first scream had come across the telephone line.

For a moment, he felt guilty for making his brother worry, but like all the other emotions, it sparked and was swallowed by the searing fury that was within him.

Finishing his prayer, the Latin thick on his tongue, he got to his feet and turned to match his brother's stride, falling in perfect step with him without thinking about it.

Echoing through him, a church bell tolled the hour, sounding like a death march and the molten emotion in his gut hardened into a leaden ball, leaving him cold and ready.

It was time.

o()o


	32. Chapter 32

o()o

_**Author's Note:** Thanks to MKOLO and Aranatta, who both practically need co-author creds for how much they nursed me through this chapter! __**Double thanks to MKOLO for all the brainstormin' and beta-ing. Love ya Monkey!!  
Nifty fact for the day: **I just want to wish you all _Nollaig shona duit _(merry christmas) and a _Athbhliain faoi mhaise duit _(happy new year)_

o(32)o

Getting into the building where they were keeping Danae was easier than Connor had thought it would be, which immediately indicated that something was amiss. The fact that this was a trap screamed through every cell in Connor's body, but he adamantly ignored the feeling. They had to get Danae; nothing else mattered.

The uptairs was as sizable as the downstairs had been, luxuriously outfitted in gleaming, polished woods, lushly patterned rugs and colorful replicas of fine art. To Connor's left a grand staircase spiraled upward to yet another level of the building, to his left a generous foyer seemed to stretch on forever.

They had made it through the entire lower floor without seeing a single soul, and the writhing sense of forewarning in Connor's gut intensified. He _knew_ now, without a doubt, that this was a setup, it was only a matter of time until some motherfuckers came springing out of fucking nowhere, guns drawn and blazing.

Readjusting the black ski mask that covered his features, he turned to his brother, placing a hand on his arm.

"Let's do this quick and clean." He said softly, relieved when Murphy nodded, blue eyes clear and focused for the first time in days. "

Beneath the black of his twin's mask, he could just make out a hint Murphy's crooked smile.

"Aye."

"We'll get Danae and get the fuck out. We can handle the rest of these motherfuckers later, after she's safe."

Murphy inclined his head toward the staircase "Let's go, then."

Gun drawn, Connor silently crept up the flight of steps, his brother following close behind.

"Christ," Murphy muttered, his voice low "If I ever get ta the point where a statue of a kid takin' a piss starts ta look like artwork, promise me that ye'll take me out somewhere and fuckin' shoot me."

"Ye've got my word," Connor said, chuckling despite the grim situation, it really was a fucking ugly statue. "Look at this one, ye can't even tell what the fuck it is."

"Looks like someone sat on the paint tubes ta me, giant painted arseprints."

"Aye." Connor snickered, looking again, his twin was right; it in fact did look like several colorful imprints of someone's backside.

"Where do you think she is?" Murphy asked quietly, sobering, and Connor couldn't help but roll his eyes.

"Ye fuckin' dope. If I knew that, would we be creepin' all through this fuckin' place?" He snorted, giving his twin a slight shove.

"Ye Fuck!" Murphy whispered stridently, catching himself before he could actually stumble. "We're on a rescue here! Ye can't just be . . ."

The deafening crack of a gunshot severed his brother's words and Connor felt his stomach plummet as the noise reverberated through him.

_We're too late. _

"Jesus fuckin' Christ!" Murphy gasped, eyes wide and frantic beneath the ski mask.

They couldn't get up the stairs fast enough, all attempts of being stealthy forgotten in their desperation to find Danae.

Whether she was dead or alive.

Sliding to a halt in the hallway, Connor barely had the time to grab Murphy's collar, yanking his twin back as a bullet whizzed by, narrowly missing them. Apparently they had found the trap.

"Fuck!" he yelled, still clutching his twin's collar in his fist, "Fuckin' mind yerself, Murphy!"

Another gunshot rang out, echoing throughout the hallway and Connor dropped to a crouch, dragging his brother down with him.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ!"

Murphy pulled his second gun from its holster, shifting to face the direction of the shots. "Find Danae and get her the fuck out o' here. I'll deal with these bastards and meet ye outside when it's all said and done."

Connor hesitated. They were safer as a team, and he didn't like the idea of splitting up, especially since it meant leaving Murphy on his own with a cluster of armed gangmembers.

"Murph . . ."

"Go!"

A firm shove to the center of Connor's chest halted his words and set him in motion. Looking over his shoulder as he ran down the opposite hallway, he saw Murphy rise to his feet and take aim in a single, fluid, motion, both guns spilling casings as he fired. Connor offered a swift prayer for his twin's safety and kept running.

He could hear the clamor of the gunfight behind him, and for a moment was so engrossed in the noise that he almost tripped over the body that was sprawled across the floor in front of him.

"Christ!"

For a moment, he simply stared, at the figure before him, his mind refusing to believe what his eyes were seeing, "Smecker?"

The agent was slumped against one of the walls, legs stretched out, an ugly, gory wound seeping crimson into the shoulder of his grey shirt. A wide smear of blood marred the pristine wall behind him, marking his collapse.

For an endless moment, Connor thought the other man was dead, but then Smecker's eyes fluttered and opened.

"What the fuck happened? Are ye alright?" Connor asked, kneeling down in front of him, carefully inspecting the injury.

Swearing, the agent swatted Connor's hands away and pressed a palm into his bloodied shoulder, shooting Connor a derisive look that quickly turned into a pained grimace.

"Do you think we could skip stupid question hour?" he gritted out.

"What the fuck are ye doin' here?"

"Bleeding, apparently." Smecker deadpanned, and then winced, "A couple of assholes caught me coming in. I clipped one of them and I'm pretty sure I missed the other one completely. I played dead until they left. They had the girl with them"

"Alive?"

Smecker nodded and Connor released a breath that he hadn't been aware of holding.

_Amen._ He thought, _Jesus fucking Christ in heaven, amen. _

"They took her down that hallway." The agent twitched a little, groaning. "Being shot hurts worse than I thought it would."

Connor nodded, slipping an arm around Smecker's waist and hauling the other man to his feet. "It does, aye. Listen now, ye need ta get the fuck out o' here and get yerself ta a fuckin' hospital."

Smecker's legs promptly buckled beneath him, sitting him down hard on the lushly carpeted floor again, almost taking Connor as well.

"Forget it, I'll be fine." Smecker said brusquely, "Get to the girl, I don't think she has much time left."

Nodding, Connor let the agent sink back into a heap on the floor, still pressing a hand against his wound, and followed the winding hallway.

Peeking into each of the rooms he passed, he finally found Danae, crudely bound to a chair, duct tape trussing her wrists and ankles. There was a huge, angry looking man in front of her, pointing a gun in her face, leering as he did.

_Don't ruin it by thinking_, Connor reminded himself, his body already in motion. Moving on long-honed instinct, he raised his gun, pulled the trigger, and delivered the gang member to his creator with a perfectly placed slug to the brain.

Danae jumped and even through the tape, he could hear her bewildered squeak as blood spattered her face. Coming up behind her, Connor dropped his hands onto her shoulders.

"Yer all right, Danae." He said, voice low, "We're here and we're goin' ta get ye out o' this place now."

Using an ancient pocketknife that Murphy had given him when they were boys, the only blade he carried; Connor cut his way through the thick layers of tape that bound her, wishing fleetingly for his twin's hunting knife.

Once the tape was cut, he tried to rip the remaining tape from her wrists, but she gave a muffled, pained cry and he stopped, stomach clenching as he saw what had provoked her cry. The delicate skin of her wrists was already scored and bleeding freely, edges of the silver tape clinging to the red lipped injuries. Trying to tear the tape from her wounds was only making them worse.

Carefully he smoothed the adhesive back over her damaged wrists, creating makeshift bandages.

"I know it stings like hell," he said, not missing her flinch, "but it'll have ta do 'til we can get ye ta a fuckin' doctor."

Moving in front of her, he tugged off his mask and offered her a fleeting smile, one that he hoped was reassuring. She looked terrible, but she was alive, and she was looking at him like he was Christ born again.

Carefully he took the edge of the tape covering her mouth between his fingers. Danae cringed away from him, shaking her head.

"I'm sorry, but it has ta be done." He smoothed a hand over her hair wishing to God that he didn't have to be the one to do this to her. "Are ye ready?"

She gave an almost imperceptible nod, shutting her eyes tightly, and Connor winced sympathetically as he ripped the tape from across her mouth.

"How badly are ye hurt?" he asked, trying to ignore the tightening in his chest as he saw blood beginning to leach from her damaged lips.

Danae exhaled a shuddering sob, tears slipping from behind her eyes. She brought a shaky hand to her mouth, wiping at the crimson welling there, her entire body trembling as she began to cry.

Leaning down, Connor enfolded her in his arms, giving her a gentle squeeze before leaning back to meet her eyes. "Keep it together, Danae. I need ye here with me now, I need ye ta answer me.

Something flickered across her face and Connor nodded his approval as she composed herself with a quick, deep breath.

"Nothing's broken." She said shakily, surprising him with her insight, "I can walk."

"Good girl."

"Connor, please, don't . . . " her words stopped abruptly as her gaze shifted from his face to over his shoulder her eyes widening in alarm.

Connor didn't have time to react before heavy hands grabbed him and hauled backwards. Thrown away from Danae, the momentum sent him skidding across the polished wood. His gun went spinning out of his hand and Connor uttered a curse as it slid well beyond his reach.

"You worthless sonofabitch." A voice above him sneered.

"Motherfucker." Connor spat back defiantly, seeing Detective Croghan standing over him, a gun aimed at his head "Murph and I should've blown yer fuckin' brains out all over the pavement when we had the fuckin' chance."

"Lucky for me you were too much of a pussy to go through with it. Looks like I'll have my day after all."

"Go ta fuckin' hell."

Crohan's eyes were cold and hard; his hand was steady on the gun as he cocked the hammer back. "You first."

There was no place to go, no way to reach his weapon and no doubt that these were his last few moments on this earth. Instinctively, Connor's hand went to his rosary, closing around the beads that were hidden under the fabric his shirt, a prayer quick on his lips. First a rapid-fire plea for his twin, and then one for himself.

_Hail Mary, full of Grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed are thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our . . . _

The gunshot was deafening.

o()o


	33. Chapter 33

o()o

_**Author's Note: **I hope all of you out there in PCLand had a great holiday! I don't know about you guys but the day after is always the hardest for me, so I thought I'd post instead of being blue.   
__**Nifty Fact for the day: **Putting the heart crossways in someone means to give them a heart attack.Fecky the ninth is Irish slang for a complete idiot._

o(33)o

The gunshot was deafening.

Murphy skidded around the corner and into the room just in time to see Connor on his back on the glossy wooden floor, the fucking dirty cop standing over him, a gun pointed at his head.

His twin was spattered with gore; his hand over his chest, and Murphy's world came to a sudden, sickening halt as he looked down at the prone form lying motionless before him.

_Oh God, no . . ._

Suddenly, there wasn't enough air in the room. Time slowed down to nightmare speed, and all he could do was stare, horrified, down at his brother.

_Please Connor, no . . . Jesus there's so much blood. . . . Oh God, no . . . No, no, no, no, no . . .Please God, no . . .Connor . . . _

But then his twin's fingers twitched over the rosary Murphy knew was in his hand, and Connor's eyes snapped open, looking up toward him. They met each other's gaze and it took Murphy a full second to comprehend that Connor was all right. The blood didn't belong to his brother and the gunshot he heard hadn't taken away the most important, precious, thing in his life.

He barely noticed as the lifeless detective crumpled at Connor's feet, most of his face now missing. His brother was all right and nothing else mattered.

Eyes flitting between the dead body and his unharmed twin, Murphy began shake with relief as much as the adrenaline that was sparking through his veins. A small, slightly wavering laugh escaped him.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ, Conn, ye put the fuckin' heart crossways in me!"

"In you?" Connor's eyes were wide and slightly glazed, his voice unsteady and his pushed himself up onto his elbows. "In _you_?"

"Holy fuck." Murphy was laughing in earnest now, relief flooding through him like sunlight.

"Help me up, ye eejit." Connor said, wiping some of the blood from his face, his own laugh a bit too loud.

Murphy extended a trembling hand, still chuckling, and when Connor grasped it, he could feel the tremors running through his twin's body as well.

That was too fuckin' close.

They took turns quickly examining the other, fingers rapidly searching for neglected wounds and broken bones. Each satisfied that the other was whole and safe, they turned as one to look at the dead body on the ground.

Connor gave another unsteady laugh, running a hand through his hair, leaving a streak of crimson behind, "Nice fuckin' shot." He said, "Ye could have hurried it the fuck along though, my whole fuckin' life was passin' before my eyes there."

Murphy frowned at the corpse and then met his brother's eyes as the words sunk in, "T'wasn't my shot."

A tiny sound drew his attention and he looked up from the corpse just in time to see Connor's gun drop from nerveless fingers.

Danae's fingers.

Her face was paper-white, eyes huge and glassy as she stared down at the bloody remains on the ground. Murphy could see her chest rising and falling too rapidly, her breath coming in panicked, shallow, bursts.

"Oh fuck." Connor breathed beside him.

Closing the distance between himself and Danae with several long strides, Murphy stepped directly into her line of sight, blocking her view of the body and pulling her into his arms. For a moment, he closed his eyes, allowing himself of moment of luxurious peace, breathing in the scent of her hair, thanking God that she and Connor both had made it through this alive.

"I had to." Danae heaved out a breath, gripping his forearms tight enough to leave marks and Murphy noticed the blood that was running down his arm, dripping steadily onto the polished wooden floor.

Carefully taking her wrist, he held it up and saw a large, ugly gash marring the skin between her finger and thumb. It had been a while since he had seen one of those, but he knew all too well what it had come from. She'd gotten the webbing of her hand caught in between the moving parts of the gun. He'd had a couple of similar wounds himself when he was first learning to shoot. They hurt like a motherfucker.

He took her hand and curled her fingers into a fist. "Squeeze," he said closing his hand over hers, "squeeze yer hand tight it'll help with the bleeding, there's a good girl."

"I had to." She gasped again softly, eyes still wide and stricken.

"I know, luv." He soothed. "Ye didn't have a choice in the matter."

She choked on a breath, the exhalation coming out a frantic hiccough. "I didn't mean to."

Murphy ducked his head, meeting her gaze. "I know ye didn't, but ye have ta keep it together now, be strong for us. It'll all be over soon."

"We need ta get Smecker and get the fuck out 'o here." Connor said, coming to stand beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "We've been here too long as it is."

"Smecker?"

"Aye, the bastard snuck inta the house and got shot before he could even do anythin'. I'm surprised ye didn't run inta him on the way ta the room."

"No, after I killed those men in the hallway there was no one else." Murphy said shaking his head.

_Fuckin' Smecker_ he thought without any real animosity. _Fecky the ninth, you are._

Connor dug into his pocket, pulling out two pennies, his face grim "Did ye take care of the ones in the hall?"

Murphy nodded, "I did, aye."

Clapping him on the back, his brother moved to the dead detective, dropping to his knees and placing a penny in the mess of bloody pulp where the eyes should have been, moving with the same care that he bestowed on all of the men they delivered.

Murphy shot an inquiring look at Danae. She was still too pale, her breathing a little too fast, but she met his eyes and managed a weak nod. "Go."

Her injured hand was still clenched into a bloody fist and absently he noted that she was a lefty, like Connor.

Smoothing a hand over her hair, feeling the blunt edges where the bastards had cut it, he left her side to kneel next to his twin, crossing himself as he did. Connor gave him a brief glance and a ghost of a smile as they bowed their heads to pray. Hurry or not, they still had to do things right.

Reciting the prayer he had known for so long, Murphy felt his skin prickle into gooseflesh. No matter how familiar the words had become to him over the years, speaking them aloud, especially with his brother's voice beside him, blending into his own, sent a thrill flickering up his spine and into his fingertips. It was as though God himself had stopped and turned His divine attention toward them as they prayed.

" . . ._Spiritus Sancti._" The ending of the prayer was met with the whoop of a siren and flashes of red and blue lights.

"Police." Connor said, grimacing as he rose to his feet, and Murphy felt a stab of apprehension.

"Fuck."

From across the room Danae shook her head. "It's an ambulance." She said quietly. When they both looked at her, eyebrows raised in matching expressions of skeptisicm, she offered them a tiny smile, more a quirk of her lips than anything. "The siren is different."

Moving quickly to the window, Connor rose up on his toes, tilting his head from side to side as he tried to get a good view of the landscape below. "She's right." He said and Murphy could hear the relief in his voice. "I can see it pullin' up ta the house."

Joining his twin at the window, Murphy saw the ambulance in question and a figure that looked suspiciously like Smecker hobbling painfully out to greet it.

Clever fucker.

"I'd be willin' ta wager the cops aren't far behind, though." He said and Connor nodded.

"We'll go out the way we came in. It's far enough on the other side of the house that no one should be able ta see us."

Murphy slipped an arm around Danae's shoulders, urging her toward the door, and felt her flinch as Connor mirrored the movement on her other side. "Let's go."

Her reply was so quiet that Murphy wasn't sure she had spoken at all until Connor chuckled and pressed a chaste kiss against the top of her head.

"Amen."

o()o

Murphy awoke to thunder grumbling in the distance and the patter of rain on the roof. He rolled over on his matress, stretching as he looked at the clock. It was entirely too early to be awake, only about 2, but he was already leaving behind the bleary feeling that meant he could fall back to sleep.

Quietly getting to his feet, he checked on Connor, who slept peacefully on the daybed above him, before padding through the house in search of a late night snack. A cheese sandwich didn't sound too bad, or maybe a bowl of krispies, or maybe even both.

Pausing in front of Danae's room, he felt his heart stop when he saw the empty bed. Fighting the alarm that was suddenly pressing against his temples, sending blood rushing through his ears, Murphy slipped through the rest of the house, searching, still to no avail. She was nowhere inside.

A curse on his lips, he started back to the room he shared with Connor, ready to wake his twin, when a brilliant flash of lightning illuminated a single figure out on the patio, unmindful of the rainy deluge.

Opening the patio door, he shivered as the first few icy droplets hit his skin, wishing he'd at least taken the time to put on a shirt before coming outside.

Danae was curled in one of the chairs, hair plastered against her head in a ragged bob. It had been the best he could do with a pair of kitchen scissors and comb after Connor had found her tearfully examining the damage that had been done in her bathroom mirror.

"Murphy?" She turned to look at him, the water beading on her face, her sopping pajamas clinging to the curves of her body.

"Christ, yer fuckin' soaked." He said pressing up against the wall, trying to keep as dry as possible, "What the fuck are ye doin' out here?"

Danae tilted her head slightly, still facing him, her voice distant, and a little sad. "I couldn't sleep."

"So ye decided ta come play in the rain, then? Have ye lost it? It's fuckin' freezing out here, Danae."

"I just wanted . . ." she stopped, sighing, "I just wanted to feel something . . . anything . . . other than this guilt, just for a moment."

Moving to kneel in front of her, the cold rain soaking him from tip to toe and making him shiver, Murphy took her hands, running his thumbs over her knuckles.

"C'mon inside, luv, let's get ye dry and warm."

"No. It's better out here." She said, reclaiming her hands and raising her face once again to the sky, allowing the rain to spatter over her features. A dazzling burst of lightening split the sky and Murphy couldn't tell where the rain stopped and her tears began.

He offered her a fleeting, sympathetic smile, dry and warm wouldn't make her feel better, but he had an idea of what would.

"I can make it better in there." He said as he leaned in to capture her mouth in a kiss that made both of them forget the icy rain.

There was a moment of stunned silence, and then Danae returned his kiss agressively, her actions almost violent as she reached up to tangle her fingers in his hair. Murphy could feel all of her pent-up emotion pouring out in that kiss and the intensity of it made him shudder, even as it made his body react.

Wrapping an arm around her waist, he hauled her to her feet, barely managing to open the patio door and pull her inside as she fell against him, tugging impatiently at what little he was wearing.

Their clothes became a sodden heap on the kitchen floor and Danae's hands were everywhere at once, as pleading and demanding as her mouth was. Her skin was chilly and wet, creating a clammy sort of friction as she mashed their bodies together.

Murphy broke the kiss, out of breath, his hands smoothing over the soft dampness of her skin.

"Please." Her voice was a raspy whisper, an invitation, and a desperate plea for release that shot straight through his brain and into his already eager sex. She arched against him, fingers digging into the muscles of his back as he found her more than ready for him.

"Please."

Their bodies met forcefully, crashing and melding around each other in a swelling of sensation that rivaled the storm outside. Under him, Danae's movements were urgent and needy, desperate to reaffirm that there was still life amidst all the death she had experienced. Her breath was coming in quick gasps, a single word carried on each exhalation.

_Please . . ._

They came together in a blinding flash, Murphy with a shuddering moan and Danae with a choked, wretched sob.

Murphy moved from above her, pulling her close to him. Cradling her against his chest, he let her bury her face in his shoulder and rubbed slow circles across her back with the flat of his hand as she wept, purging herself of the last bits of pain and guilt that remained.

o()o


	34. Chapter 34

o()o

_**Author's Note: **Thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far, but this is not the end!! I still have chapters to post. :)  
**Nifty Fact for the Day:** A bucket of snots is an Irish term meaning a very ugly person. _

o(34)o

The day was bright and unusually warm for this time of year, a nice change from the string of storms they'd been having. Standing on a small hill, watching the funeral that was taking place several yards away, Danae ran a hand through her hair, still trying to get used to the feeling of it being so short.

Bill Croghan's service had been a big one, the church had been crowded to the point where there was only room to stand at the back. She had watched as dozens of the man's family and friends filed past her to pay their respects. She sang the hymns and listened to person upon person come up and extol his virtues.

He was a good man, they said, a valued member of the community, a doting husband and father of three boys. He was captain of the precinct softball team, loved fishing, and played a mean game of poker with the boys on the weekend. He was a great cop and a better friend.

And she had killed him.

The thought alone was enough to make bile rise in the back of Danae's throat and tiny needle pricks bit into her palm as her hand tightened around the single white rose she held, her homage to the murdered officer.

The papers proclaimed that Dectective William John Croghan had been shot and killed while investigating a criminal case. Murdered by a gangmember amped up on some new drug. . He was dubbed a hero by the media, an unfaltering champion of innocent.

Killed in the Line of Duty

Nobody would ever know that he had been a part of the criminals he was so ardently investigating, and nobody would ever know that he had lost his life at the hands of a terrified ER registrar.

Nobody would ever know who the real heroes were.

It was a bizarre conversion of belief, the change from killers and vigilantes to heroes and saviors, but she had gotten an up close and personal look at what the Saints were fighting against and somewhere along the line, realized that this wasn't pleasure killing, or some twisted personal vendetta. They were doing good, _real_ good in the world and whether it knew it or not, the world needed them.

A gentle touch on her shoulder broke her free from the thought and she turned to see Murphy standing there, an unlit cigarette in his mouth. He was dressed in his normal torn jeans and black jacket, squinting into the bright autumn sun.

"How did you know I was here?" she asked, surprised.

Murphy chuckled a little bit. "Ye left the paper open ta the obituary on the table this mornin'. It was pretty easy ta guess that this was where ye'd be."

"Oh."

"How're ye doin'?" He asked softly, his smile fading into an expression of concern.

"Okay." She lied.

Murphy lifted a skeptical eyebrow, "Did ye sleep at all?"

"About an hour today."

He nodded with a sort of reluctant approval; it was a vast improvement that she was sleeping at all. "Have ye eaten?"

Her stomach lurched at the thought of food, "No, everything still smells like gunpowder and blood to me." She said, swallowing against the growingly familiar nausea, wondering if the stench would ever fade away.

Turning away, cupping his hand as he lit his cigarette, he took a long pull, looking out over the cemetery.

"It's hard to think that we're the only ones who'll ever know what he was really like." He spoke her thoughts to her.

"What if this," she gestured to where the mourners that had gathered around Croghan's gravesite were beginning to disperse, "_is_ what he was really like? A good man? " The question made her eyes prickle. It was the same thing she'd been asking herself for a week solid, ever since she had picked up Connor's gun in that mansion and taken another human's life; What if she had made a terrible mistake?

"I think yer missin' the big picture here," Murphy said quietly, "Ye killed that man ta save me brother. If not for ye . . ." Murphy's voice broke and he had to pause before continuing, "If not for ye, we'd be at a wholly different funeral right now."

Looking at him, Danae was taken aback to see that his eyes were wet. He offered her a slightly shaky grin, running a hand over his face and taking another fortifying drag from his cigarette. "Ye had ta make a choice, Danae, and it was a hard one, but given the circumstances I'm mighty fuckin' glad ye chose the way ye did."

His words took her completely unawares and she blinked as what he was saying sunk in, her already overtaxed imagination creating a bleak image of Connor's funeral. The prickle in her eyes gave way to warmth and Danae bit her lip, trying to will the tears away.

"Smecker thinks that he may have killed his old partner, that the man found out what Croghan was inta and Croghan made sure he could never tell anyone."

Danae raised her eyebrows, grateful for the change in subject. "How is Smecker?"

Grinning, Murphy shook his head, his composure already sliding back into place "Stubborn bastard. The bullet nicked one of the bones in his shoulder and he'll be in a sling for a good long while, but the doctor says that he'll be fine in time. Connor's there now."

Danae nodded, looking across the cemetery, Croghan's gravesite was almost empty now, and only a handful of people remaining clustered around the marker where the headstone would be. "Why didn't you go?"

"It's safer if we aren't seen together for a while. Besides, I wanted ta be here with ye."

They stood in silence, watching the rest of the mourners depart as the sun set. When the gravesite was empty, Danae sighed, twirling the rose absently between her hands. Did she really want to do this after all?

"Do ye want me ta come along?" He asked, pulling another cigarette from his pocket.

Danae shook her head. "This is something I have to do on my own."

He nodded, reaching out to touch the blunt ends of her hair, rubbing them between his fingers. "I'll wait for ye here then?"

Giving him a grateful smile, she turned and made her way down the hill. Standing before the fresh grave, she stared down at the earth, thinking about the man she had put beneath it. After a moment, she added her own rose to the masses of flowers that were there and placed a hand against the dark soil.

"I'm sorry." She whispered to the dead detective before rising to her feet, rubbing the moist earth between her fingerstips, and making her way back to where Murphy was waiting.

o()o

_What is it with hospitals,_ Connor wondered, navigating the winding, brightly lit hallways, _that makes every single one of them like a fucking labyrinth? _

He'd been wandering around for a good 20 minutes now searching for a hallway that didn't actually seem to exist. He'd stopped and asked how to get to room 202 twice and both very attractive nurses had sent him on his way with an improved and even more complicated set of directions.

Although he would never admit it, Connor knew that Murphy had inherited the sense of direction between them. His brother could find his way blindfolded out of just about anywhere. He, however, was constantly making notes of landmarks, turning to look at things from the opposite way just in case he got turned around. He consoled himself with the fact that Murphy could barely change the batteries in the remote control.

Now, seeing the sign that declared this hallway the Medical/Surgical floor, Connor breathed an inaudible sigh of relief. "Fuckin' finally." He muttered under his breath.

Smecker's door was open and what Connor saw stopped him dead for a moment. The guy from Smecker's hotel room was there, holding the agent's non-injured hand and laughing. More amazingly, was that Smecker was laughing along, his face alight.

"Never would have seen that coming." He muttered to himself. Knocking loudly on the doorframe he couldn't help but be amused when Smecker snatched his hand away and shot the man a disparaging look.

The Asian man just rolled his eyes and exhaled a long-suffering sigh. "You are such a bitch, Paul." He said good-naturedly and a trace of Smecker's smile returned.

"Come in." The agent called and Connor walked into the room, grinning.

"Glad ta see ye're doin' all right." He said to Smecker, pulling up a chair. Then, to the man next to him, "Glad ta see ye're wearin' clothes this time."

"Hey, nothing says first impression like full frontal nudity." The man said, extending his hand and returning Connor's smile. "I'm Nigel by the way."

"Connor." He replied, giving Nigel's hand a hearty shake. "Pleasure ta meet ye."

"Likewise. I hear you're quite the superhero Connor."

"If you're _quite_ through flirting with the straight man," Smecker snapped, giving Nigel's hand a sharp slap and rolling his eyes in exasperation. "Why don't you make yourself useful grab me a cup of coffee?"

Eyebrows raised, Nigel shot the injured agent a flippant look and rose to his feet, leaning over to murmur something in Smecker's ear that made the agent's eyes widen in shock.

"Get out of here!" he retorted, scowling, and Nigel simply chuckled, slipping out of the room.

"Ye fuckin' told him?" Connor asked, in disbelief. "What the fuck's wrong with ye, man?"

Smecker shook his head. "I didn't say anything, he just kinda figured it out on his own. He said it was pretty obvious the night you came to tell me about the girl. Hell, I'm not even exactly sure how he figured out I was here. Cocky bastard should be a friggin' detective."

"So how much longer are they keepin' ye?" asked Connor, settling into the uncomfortable hospital chair, stretching his legs out in front of him.

"They're talking about letting me go tomorrow. I'll be wearing this thing," Smecker tugged at the uncomfortable looking sling, grimacing, "for the next 5 weeks though.

He gave the agent a reproachful look, shaking his head. "Serves ye right. What the fuck were ye doin' in that place anyway?"

"Being as worthless as the first time, clearly." Smecker said through a disenchanted sigh.

Connor snorted. "Well, look on the bright side, at least this time ye weren't in fuckin' drag."

"Asshole."

"I'm sorry, but if ye were goin' ta get injured, at least ye managed ta do it and keep yer dignity besides. Because, and I hate ta tell ye this, but as a woman ye were a complete bucket o' snot."

"Oh, my." Nigel's subtle lisp came from the doorway where he leaned, holding two cups of coffee, and grinning. "Paul? In drag? Do tell."

Connor bit back a laugh as color stained the FBI agent's cheeks. The ever-cynical, imperturbable, glaringly sarcastic Smecker was actually _blushing_. Oh, how he wished Murphy were here to see this.

Pushing off of the door, Nigel offered Connor a cup of coffee, chuckling as Smecker snatched the second one from his hands.

"Where's your brother?" the agent asked, and Connor noted that for all his angry bravado, Smecker's eyes hadn't left Nigel since the other man had made his presence known.

"He's looking after Danae right now, said he'd be by later. We thought it'd be best if we weren't seen together for a bit."

Smecker nodded his approval. "Smart. And how's the girl doing?"

Connor shrugged, frowning. "Better than I thought she would ta be honest. She's got mettle, no fuckin' doubt about that."

"She's the one that killed Croghan, isn't she?"

"She was, aye." The memory of Danae's face that night made Connor grimace, his chest tightening. "How'd ye know?"

"The police reports said it was one of your guns, a 9mm, but the angle was all wrong, too low to be either of you guys."

"Craziest fuckin' thing." said Connor, shaking his head. "T'was a perfect fuckin' shot. _Perfect._ Later she tells us that she was aiming for his knees, only Danae could be aimin' for man's knees and blow his fuckin' head off by accident."

Smecker chuckled a little at that, wincing as the movement jostled his injured shoulder. "Sometimes truth really is stranger than fiction."

"Amen ta that."

o()o


	35. Chapter 35

o(35)o

Pushing open the door to Danae's apartment, Connor smiled seeing his twin sitting on the couch, covered in a blanket, a dark haired bundle curled up next to him sound asleep.

"She finally sleepin'?"

Murphy looked up and offered him an amused smile. "She is, aye. Nodded off a couple o' hours ago and I couldn't bring myself ta move and chance wakin' her up."

Chuckling, Connor shook his head. "How was the funeral?"

Murphy snorted. "Fuckin' disgustin' is what it was, all those people talking about that crooked bastard like he was some fuckin' hero. Made me want ta fuckin' heave listenin' to them." He looked down at Danae, smoothing her hair gently.

"But I think she made her peace, and that's what matters, this is the first time she's actually slept all fuckin' week.

"I know." Smiling slightly, he reached down to mimic his brother's action, tousling where Murphy had smoothed. "She'll be all right." He murmured softly.

Murphy nodded. "She will. How's Smecker?"

"Fuckin' sharp as ever, they're lettin' him out tomorrow. "

"Good ta hear."

"Aye, I think he may have a 'friend' though, they certainly seemed ta like each other."

"More than I wanted ta know." Murphy said, pulling a face, making Connor chuckle.

"C'mon outside and have a smoke with me."

Gently disentangling himself from Danae and tucking the blanket securely around her, Murphy rose to his feet reaching for his jacket.

Connor took a good long look at the bundle on the couch, feeling an unusual tug of remorse for her. Danae had killed a man, she had blood on her hands, and it was his fault. She had lost something the second she had picked up his gun and could never get it back

The thought provoked another unpleasant twist in his chest, taking a slow breath he willed the feeling away. He couldn't fix what had come to pass, but he sure as hell could make sure that it never happened again.

Reaching out, hebrushed the fingers of his free hand over the white gauze bandage that covered Danae's hand, concealing the wound caused by his gun and the six stitches that it had taken to close it.

She stirred slightly, withdrawing her hand into the warmth of the blanket and making a muffled noise of objection. "Tickles." She murmured groggily before settling back to sleep.

"Are ye all right Conn?" Murphy asked, his expression concerned.

"Aye." He said, pulling a cigarette out of his jacket pocket, surprised to see that his hands were trembling. "Fuck."

Frowning, Murphy placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently, "Connor?"

Shaking his head, Connor motioned his twin outside.

Once the door was shut, he lit is cigarette and took a deep drag, rubbing at the headache that was starting to throb between his eyes. He was aware of Murphy watching him questioningly and exhaled his lungful of smoke with a sigh.

"Ye know we can't let this go, don't ye? This thing is far from over and it has ta be stopped once and for all, so nobody else gets hurt."

"Aye,"

He saw the pain that flashed in his brother's eyes and wondered if his own feelings were as apparent. He didn't want to leave, Murph was happy here, and so was he, but he knew that sometimes sacrifices had to be made for the greater good. It was what their mission was all about.

"We can't stay here anymore; it's too much of a risk."

Looking away, Murphy brought his thumb to his mouth, worrying the nail between his teeth. "I know." He said distractedly.

"We'll have ta leave before long, the sooner the better probably."

"Aye." Turning to look through the glass of the patio door, watching Danae as she slept, Murphy reached up to massage a spot in between his eyebrows and Connor realized, with a grim sort of amusement, that his brother was probably developing a headache of his own.

One of the many interesting perks of being a twin.

Following his brother's gaze, Connor steeled himself for what had to be done. "We almost got her killed, you know." He said at last.

Beside him, Murphy stilled, his hands dropping away from the cigarette he had been in the middle of lighting. "Christ, Connor . . ."

"We did, Murph. She got involved and it almost fuckin' killed her, it was almost Rocco all over again."

"Ye think I don't fuckin' know that?" His twin's voice was incredulous. "Ye think I don't think that every time I fuckin' look at her?"

Connor took another fortifying drag off of his cigarette, trying to reign in his freewheeling thoughts. He could see the irritation building in his brother, and knew that if he wanted to avoid a quarrel he was going to have to keep his calm. Christ, he hated being the one to do this.

"I'm only sayin' that maybe its best if we just go without sayin' goodbye, just pack up and slip out one night while she's at work."

"No. I'm not doin' that ta her. She deserves more than that from us and ye know it."

"Murph," he said gently, "stickin' around is only goin' ta make it harder than it will be already. I mean think about it . . ."

Murphy whirled on his brother, shoving Connor with enough force to make him stumble backwards. "Jesus fuckin' Christ, Connor, we're not doin' that ta her. No. Period. What the fuck more do ye want?"

Connor winced as his hip collided with the heavy patio table. The pain mixed with his brother's angry words splintered his already beleaguered temper. So much for keeping his calm.

"I want ye ta fuckin' dry yer arse!" he yelled, reaching out to grasp the lapels of his twin's jacket and giving him a angry shake, "I don't fuckin' want this anymore than ye do, but we've got a fuckin' job ta do and we've got ta be smart about it."

"Fuck you!" Murphy shouted, angrily, swatting away Connor's hands and giving him another hard shove. "Don't treat me like I'm a fuckin' child; I fuckin' know what needs ta be done! I've never backed down before, and I'm not about to fuckin' start now."

"I didn't mean . . ."

"Fuck what ye meant, I know what ye meant." In his frustration, Murphy's movements had become jerky and erratic as though his hands were at war with his thoughts. "Christ, I need ta get the fuck out o' here."

"Murph . . ."

"Let it fuckin' go Connor! Just . . . just fuckin' keep an eye on Danae. Fuck!"

Brushing past him, Murphy stalked out of the apartment complex, his angry words catching on the wind.

Watching his twin's retreating form Connor sighed wearily, rubbing at the dull throb that was intensifying behind his eyes and wondering if that could have possibly gone any worse.

Turning to go in, he saw Danae, woken by their argument no doubt, standing just inside the patio door, still wrapped in the soft blanket, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Closing his eyes, Connor released the last of the smoke from his lungs with a rueful sigh. Apparently, it _could_ get worse.

"Danae," he said gently, pushing open the door, "Listen ta me now . . ."

o()o

Murphy leaned over the bar, resting his chin on his hands, and eyeing the shot of whiskey in front of him despondently. He'd had too much to drink already, more than enough to blur the conflict between what he wanted to do and what he knew was necessary, but not enough to ease the pain that he knew the actual decision would bring.

To be the vengeful striking hammer of God or to be in love, this time there was no choice in the matter. His brother was right, the Street Priests were still out there, and what they were doing couldn't go on. He and Connor couldn't just stand by and allow others to get hurt.

Not when they could take a stand and do something. Not while their divine calling was still pulsing strong through every inch of vein and artery.

_To destroy that which is evil . . . so that which is good may flourish. _

A cool hand covered his, and Murphy raised his eyes from the shotglass looking up at the bartender.

"I'm pretty sure you're going to lose the staring contest, sweetie." She said, offering him a smile and a quirk of a pierced eyebrow.

Chuckling a little, Murphy tossed back the shot, surprised when she refilled the glass without being asked.

"You seem pretty darn down. Anything you want to talk about?"

Murphy shook his head. "Thank ye, though."

"I've been told I'm an excellent listener." She cajoled, offering him a surprisingly pretty grin.

Shaking his head again, he returned his attention to the scarred, faded Formica of the bar, absently tracing an ancient pockmark there with his fingers.

"Girl trouble huh?"

She laughed at his bewilderment, running her hand through blue streaked hair. "Hey, I know all about that kind of thing. I love my girl more than anything else on the planet, but she still drives me completely nutso sometimes."

"I have ta leave her." Murphy mumbled, the words lubricated by alcohol and shaken loose by the bartender's sympathy. "My work has ta come first and she can't be with me when I go."

"Important job?"

"Aye, and I know it needs ta be done, but fuck, I wish it didn't. I was happy, comfortable, and then this." He made an unsteady, animated, gesture with his hands. "Sometimes it seems like it'll never be enough, that things'll never be right again."

"You know," the bartender said, offering him a thoughtful smile. "When I was having problems with Lauren, my mom told me that if it was meant to be, then it'll be, and nothing on heaven or earth can change that."

She shrugged then leaned down to meet his eyes, giving his hand another reassuring pat. "If it's meant to be between you and this girl, then it'll happen, you just have to wait until the time is right."

"Ye think so?" Christ he hoped so.

"I know so. Now come on and finish your shot, it's almost last call."

Murphy swallowed the amber liquid and the bartender moved away, filling up two mugs with beer and setting them in front of a couple at the other end of the bar, exchanging a few words with them as she did.

Taking a long drag off of his cigarette, he pondered the girl's words, holding the smoke until his lungs were burning in protest.

He and Connor had spent the last two years under divine guidance; God had given them a mission and a swift, blessed, boot in the arse to get them going. It never escaped Murphy how easily they seemed to find the evilest of men, as though they were being guided there by God's own hand.

If He could lead them to bloodshed, why couldn't He lead them to peace?

The answer came almost before the question was complete, reverberating in his head loud enough to drown out the alcohol induced buzz.

_Because you aren't finished yet._

Finally exhaling, dizzy with the lack of oxygen as much as the voice in his mind, Murphy rubbed between his eyes, the budding headache he had soothed with spirits and nicotine making a sudden comeback. Along with the thick smell of cigar smoke, he caught bits and pieces of a conversation going on behind him. It took him several seconds to realize that the discussion wasn't in English, and several more to get his booze numbed brain to translate the words.

Sitting up a little straighter, cocking his head as he listened without listening, he felt his stomach drop in a way that had nothing to do with alcohol. Noise from the bar made the already slurred Spanish especially difficult to understand, but Murphy still caught enough of the conversation to be unsettled. They were talking about the attack at the mansion.

He chanced a quick look in the mirror above the bar and saw two very drunk, very large, very dangerous looking men in the booth behind him. One of the men raised his arm to summon the bartender and Murphy caught a glimpse of the scrawling tattoo that circled his thick wrists. _Redima Con Sangre. _

Fuck.

The whiskey had made him reckless and Murphy reached for his guns. He was going blow these motherfuckers to hell right fucking now and be done with the entire thing. He was going to end this fucking debaucle right here.

Or he would have if his guns weren't currently sitting on Danae's kitchen counter.

Double fuck.

Righteous fury spiked with adrenaline flooded through his body, and just like that, he was sober. Murphy strung together a curse under his breath that would have made the saltiest of men blink, deciding to make the best of a bad situation. He leaned back on the barstool trying to be as nonchalant about eavesdropping on the men as he could manage.

_Where's my fucking shoephone now, Agent 86? _

The more they talked, the more uneasy he became, and by the time they paid for their drinks and left, Murphy was sure that he was going to explode from the tension that was building inside of him. He couldn't believe this was fucking happening.

After giving the men a decent head start, he slid off the barstool, tossed some money on the table for his tab, and swiftly made his way back to Danae's apartment.

Opening the patio door, he saw his twin sitting in the couch, remote in hand, flipping through the channels without actually seeing them. Spying Murphy, Connor was on his feet and inches away from his brother in an instant.

"Where the fuck have ye been?" Connor growled, his eyes dark and angry. "Do ye have any fuckin' idea what time it is?"

Murphy met his brother's eyes unflinchingly. "I know where we're going." He said softly and watched as the anger drained from Connor's face.

o()o


	36. Chapter 36

o()o

_**Nifty Fact for the day: **_Dheireadh _is gaelic for_ _ending or conclusion. One last fun fact for all of you out there in PCLand._

o(36)o

Connor shoved the last of his clothes into the battered rucksack, pulling it closed with undo force, aware of his brother across the room doing the same.

There wasn't much to pack, most of the their belongings having been lost in the explosion at the hotel, only a couple of changes of clothes and a few personal items that had managed to survive the events of the last several months. All of their belongings would either fit in the duffel bags they used for missions or the matching rucksacks they had purchased from a nearby Salvation Army store.

The past twenty-four hours had been a blur of commotion for Connor, he had been a whirlwind of activity from the moment Murphy had come through the door and turned their entire world on its ear with five simple words.

_I know where we're going._

Somehow while he was out at the bar, making Connor worry himself half to fucking death, his twin had found the leader of the Street Priests, he had discovered what the bastards were planning, and he knew where to start looking. Leave it to Murphy to go out with every intention of getting completely bollixed and, by God only knows what means, manage to stumble across the very thing they were looking for instead.

Only Murphy could pull something like that off. Cursed with luck their Ma had called it.

The preparations they were making were rushed and off the cuff, but it was the best they could do. It was going to be a long trip and the bastards they were after already had several days head start, they had to travel fast.

Yesterday, Connor had flipped open the classified adverts in the local paper, calling on the first car for sale that he had come across. Two more calls and $500 later, he and Murphy were now the proud owners of a 1985 Ford LTD. The thing was a tank, heavy, and ugly as sin, but it ran and was nondescript and that was all they really needed.

The plan was simple enough; leaving at first light, they would take turns driving for as long as they could stand, making up for lost time as much as they could. Inwardly, Connor wondered how long it would take the both of them being cooped up in a car together before they fucking killed each other.

His guess was about two days, tops.

Boredom was one of his brother's greatest _bête-noirs,_ and confining Murphy to a small place was a very effective form of torture. Although cooping someone up with his twin in a small place could also be concidered cruel and unusual punishment, especially if that someone was Connor.

Looking up, he saw Danae standing in the doorway, her face ashen and grim as she watched them pack and felt a jagged stab of sympathy for her. This wasn't the way he wanted this to happen.

From the moment the decision had actually been made for them to leave, Connor had seen how very wrong he had been to assume that leaving without saying goodbye would be easier. Nothing in the fucking world would make leaving easier. Nothing.

Chancing a look at his brother, Connor frowned seeing how badly Murphy's hands shook as he packed, the tension was coming off of his twin in waves so thick that Connor could feel it down to his very bones.

Murphy was faking apathy, and doing a pretty fucking good job at it, but Connor knew him far to well to be fooled, and all of his brother's minute tells were screaming out his misery. Connor didn't understand why Murphy was putting this distance between himself and Danae, and he could only hope that his brother pulled his head out of his arse before they left and he came to regret his actions.

"I packed you guys a cooler," Danae said softly, and Murphy stilled at the sound of her voice, pausing for just a moment before going back to shoving things in his rucksack, never once looking up. "It's not much, just some sandwiches and stuff."

Frowning at his brother and slinging his own duffel bag over his shoulder, Connor ruffled her hair, making the newly short ends stick out in wild directions, and pressed a chaste kiss against her forehead.

"Thanks." He said offering her a small smile. He was going to miss her more than he allowed himself to think about. "We appreciate it."

She nodded, returning his smile with one that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"I'm sorry about this." He said.

"I know."

Without thinking, he swept her into a tight, one-armed hug. "We'll be back." He murmured. "Once this is all over."

This time her smile was genuine, despite the tears that had escaped and were now sliding slowly down her cheeks. "You'd better be."

"I promise ye that we will."

"Connor?" her voice was pitched low for his ears only, and he paused hearing the pain there, looking down at her.

"Aye?"

"Take care of each other."

He chuckled a little bit, giving her hair another tousle. "We always do."

She nodded her approval and Connor slipped past her, making is way out of the apartment and toward their waiting car, knowing that his twin wouln't be far behind.

o()o

Danae's heart was breaking.

She wasn't one for dramatics, and normally the word 'heartbroken' provoked a scoff and an eyeroll from her, but there was nothing else that could explain the almost physical pain in her chest.

Her family was leaving, they had given her no time to prepare, no time to say goodbye, they were just _leaving_.

And Murphy's abrupt change in behavior wasn't helping matters any. Since he had come home after his fight with Connor, he had been beyond indifferent, beyond precise, and the flat chill in his eyes worried her as much as it wounded her.

She watched him quietly for a moment as he crammed the few remaining things he owned into his bag, yanking it shut so tightly that she half expected the strings to break, still refusing to look at her or acknowledge that she was even there.

Slinging the rucksack over his shoulder and grabbing the black duffel bag, he brushed by her, heading toward the door.

"Murphy?" she asked tentatively.

"What?" he paused, body tense, his voice curt, almost angry.

Despite her best efforts, her lips began to tremble, eyes prickling again. Why was he doing this to her, did he think it was going to make it easier?

"Aren't you going to say goodbye?" she asked, staring at the toe of her sock. "Don't I at least deserve that much?"

She heard his soft intake of breath, the sound of his bags hitting the floor and suddenly she was in his arms, crushed against him so tightly she could scarcely breathe.

"Oh, Christ, I'm sorry," he whispered into her hair, his hand smoothing over her back. "I'm so fuckin' sorry about this, luv. I never wanted it ta be this way, never wanted ta hurt ye."

"I'm going to miss you so much." She choked out around the lump in her throat.

"Jesus, Danae, ye know I'll miss you too."

She heard him sniff softly and was surprised to see that his eyes were damp, all traces of aloofness now gone from the blue depths.

"Murphy," she began, but suddenly he was raining kisses down on her neck and shoulders.

"Ye could come." He murmured to her repeatedly. "It doesn't have ta be this way, ye could come with us, ye could come too."

Taking his face in both her hands, she tried to shush him, but only a quiet sob came out. "I can't, Murphy, you know that. There's no place for me where you're going."

Swallowing, already collecting himself, Murphy nodded and took her hand, placing it against his chest, over his heart. "Maybe not on the road, but there'll always be a place for ye here."

Feeling the warmth of his skin through the shirt he was wearing, and the strong heartbeat under her palm, Danae buried her face in his neck and struggled to find something to say to him. Whatever she said would be wrong, though, and she realized there was nothing she _could_ say because everything sounded too much like goodbye.

"Will ye think of me from time ta time while I'm away?"

The ludicrousness of the question shook an unsteady laugh from her.

"Always." She whispered, "For the rest of my life, there won't be a day that goes by when I don't think of you."

The growing prickle in her eyes warned her that the words were a little too close to goodbye and she snuffled, forcing the lump in her throat away, she had to be strong now. This was hard enough as it was without her having a breakdown.

"When this is all over, I'm comin' back to ye, I swear."

"Both of you." She murmured against his shoulder and felt his soft chuckle.

"Aye, the both of us. Will ye wait for me, then?"

Danae nodded, knowing that she would wait forever if it meant she could have them back in her life.

They wouldn't return until it was over and Connor had explained to her that they couldn't keep in contact for fear of being discovered. She knew it was for the best, the smart thing to do, but that didn't stop the sting of his words and it didn't ease the gnawing feeling of being left behind. Of being left alone.

"I have ta go, we've lost too much time as it is." He said at last, looking down at her, moving a hand to the small of her back, guiding her toward the door. "Will ye see us off?"

As they stepped outside, Danae looked up at the muted, watery sunrise just as the first snowflakes came fluttering down, fluffy and fat, catching in her eyelashes and hair. Murphy chuckled tilting his face up to the sky before offering her a smile and a slow, sweet, kiss that left her weak kneed and more than a little breathless.

Standing on the front stair, shivering in the cold, she watched him walk away, toss his bag into the back seat, and nod toward his brother. Connor, who had been sitting patiently on the hood, smoking a cigarette, jumped off and gave his brother a quick, affectionate pat on the back, sliding in behind the wheel.

The engine rumbled to life and both brothers gave her a brief wave and a matching grin before Connor coaxed the reluctant car into motion.

Nothing could have prepared Danae for the onslaught of emotion that lambasted her when the car turned the corner and out of her sight, and nothing could ever compare to the feeling, it was like a brick hitting her in the chest: sharp, painful and unexpected.

_So, this is devastation._

She had known from the first moment she'd met Murphy, and later Connor, that their presence in her life would be temporary, and she'd known the second they revealed to her who they were, that their calling would be the thing that took them away. But now they were actually gone, she had no idea when, or even if, she would ever see them again, and the hole their absense left inside of her seemed too wide and deep to ever heal.

Tears slipped down her cheeks and off of her chin, making tiny holes in the rapidly accumulating snow around her feet as she stared at the now empty corner.

There was no need to be strong now, no need to hide her anguish for the benefit of those she loved, and Danae wept until her chest ached. Noisy, gasping sobs tore through her and for a fleeting moment she wanted nothing more than to run after them, to chase down the car and tell them to stay, she would do anything if only they would stay.

The thought quieted as quickly as it had come. This was what they did; it was a fundamental part of who they were, as deep-seated and inborn as any of their physical attributes.

Heros, saviours and protectors of the innocent, this was what the MacManus men were made of. But it a was dangerous calling and as much as she was coming to understand it, it didn't diminish the fear that they wouldn't make it back to her, that someone would steal them away forever with a bullet and a spray of blood.

Finally the tears dwindled to a few hiccupping sobs and she took a deep breath in, wiping at the mess of tears and snow on her face.

They had said they'd be careful, and they had said they'd look out for each other, and most of all, they had promised that they would come back. She had to have faith that they would be true to their word, after all, they hadn't let her down yet.

Tilting her face to the sky, Danae sucked in another frozen breath and watched the last of the sunrise. She could do this; she knew she could.

All that was left to do now, was wait.

o( _dheireadh_ )o

_**Author's Note: **Okay, **now **it's over, LOL! Thanks to everyone who came along for the ride, I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.  
_


	37. Credits

_**Author's Note: **Hey there! I'm a big fan of credit where credit is due so I really feel that this is very important._

_A Giant thanks to Aranatta, who brainstormed with me every free moment we had (and sometimes when we were busy) at home on the couch, in the grocery store, in the middle of Wal-Mart getting weird looks from old people, in the car, making dinner . . .well you get the idea. His unflinching concrit sent me to many a rewrite, but it always came out for the better and WG is better for him. I'm already driving him up the wall with the sequel and as always, he's wonderfully patient and wonderfully creative. There's no better brainstorm buddy out there!_

_Also to MKOLO, my beta who put up with editing entire chapters in advance, only to have me scrap them and start over. Who IMed with me for hours on end, tweaking dialogue and getting the pop culture just right. Her rocksteady support and enthusiam are the main reasons that Waiting Game got finished. There were several chapters that got completed because of her and her alone. She dealt with betaing two and three chapters at a time, endless late night emails, and horrible, horrible puns, through it all she remained upbeat, positive and encouraging. I couldn't ask for a better beta, or a better friend. I don't tell her enough how much I love her an how much I appreciate everything she does. _

_Thanks to Irishjeeper, who found me on livejournal and offically became WGs pimp. I've lost count of how many times she's reccommended WG to someone who was looking for a fic to read and I adore her for that. She's an intelligent, beautiful person inside and out._

_Also to archerlove, my angst-monitor. Making sure it's just painful enough . . ._

_And thanks, of course, to every out there in PCLand who read and reviewed_ _(Arcie Lee, SnTAngel - Shizuka-naTenshi, Just-a-moment, ArraMidnight, Blue Eyes At Night, Reid's Girl, penscratch, Saru San, Lady Starhawk, St.Stephen's, La Flamingo, so.it.goes., Ohio-isn'tfor-lovers, frkykorngirl, Esyla, star7166, gostlcards, Shila, Aiden, Elizabeth, Mally, meggo, SomniculusFaber, Miss Panther, saoi, Twisted Ivy, Elaine, Catchy Turn, nanotech, Threll, Samantha Bridges, Goddess of Rage, Anthem Aeneid, iheartconnor, bookwormFFW, Jess, Sheiado, and, of course, chloecat)_

_You guys' kind words and support are the reason I wrote Waiting Game and I appreciate each and every review, they make my day and keep me going when I don't particularly want to. To show my undying appreciation:_

o()o

" Conn?" Murphy's voice had broken through the road hypnosis and into his thoughts. Looking, he saw his twin lighting two cigarettes, smiling around them. "Ye might want to pay attention ta the road." Murphy had said conversationally.

"Christ!" Connor had jerked the wheel, bringing the battered Ford back to the proper lane. "Why didn't ye fuckin' say something?"

"I just fuckin' did, didn't I?" Murphy had rolled his eyes, offering Connor a cigarette.

Taking the fag from his brother's fingers and inhaling a gratifying lungful of smoke, Connor barely had time to catch a glimpse of his twin reaching for the steering wheel before his cigarette had exploded.

"Ye fuck!" Connor had tossed the ruined smoke out of the window and wiped at the black he knew was coating his face. "Where in Christ's fuckin' name did ye get fuckin' cigarette loads?"

Whooping with laughter, Murphy had simply shaken his head, carefully keeping the car on the road from the passenger seat, while Connor sputtered and swore.

"Ye should see yer fuckin' face!" His twin had hooted. "Ye look like a fuckin' cartoon!"

Swatting Murphy's hands away from the wheel, Connor had regained control of the car, calling his brother every detestable name he could think of, much to Murphy's amusement. Adding insult to injury, he'd then had to walk into the motel they had chosen for the night and rent a room, looking like his ACME stick of fucking dynamite had malfunctioned.

Despite his irritation with his twin's prank, Connor had felt a tiny twinge of relief seeing the sparkle in Murphy's eyes. That sparkle meant that they would be all right, more importantly, that _Murphy_ would be all right.

Now, several hundred miles, one church, and a shit apartment later, Connor watched his twin stretch out on the couch, already starting to drift back to sleep. Glancing at the soggy pizza in his hand, he couldn't stop an evil grin from spreading across his face.

_Payback time. _

His aim as true as it was with a gun, Connor lobbed the drooping slice at his twin, chuckling as it smacked him squarely in the face. Murphy yelped, bolting upright, tomato sauce smearing his features and spattering his hair, a single slice of pepperoni sticking stubbornly to his forehead.

"Ye fuck!" he gasped, swiping at the mess sliding down his cheeks and neck. "That's fuckin' _cold_!"

Connor barely heard his brother's heated insults, doubled over with laughter. Revenge was a wonderful, wonderful thing, especially served cold right from the refrigerator.

"Ye should see yer fuckin' face!" he whooped, laughing all the harder when Murphy launched himself off of the couch, tackling him and mashing the remains of the pizza into his hair.

o()o

Maire loved the city at night. She was out later than she should have been, especially in this part of town, but the day had been warm and the spring lighting couldn't have been more perfect.

Carefully juggling a camera in one hand and balancing Sasha on her hip with the other, she decided that it was time to head home. Sasha was a filthy mess from her adventures at the park and she still needed to get dinner made before putting the baby to bed for the night.

"Mah!" Sasha announced, waving her disposable camera and pointing a chubby finger at her mother.

Maire beamed her cheesiest grin at her baby and a moment later was blinded by the disposable's flash. The camera was one of Sasha's favorite things, and had been since she was old enough to push the button, one thing she had inherited from her mother. Most of the time Maire developed pictures of the floor or of her daughter's thumbs and shoes, but occasionally she discovered some amazing shots that Sasha had taken. Plus, it allowed her to take her own photos in peace.

Pausing on the bridge that led to their neighborhood, Maire stopped, awestruck at the full moon that was rising over the water. "Wow," she whispered. "Do you see that, baby?"

A wide smile and a spit bubble in her ear told her that her daughter was as impressed with the view as she was.

Carefully setting Sasha on her feet and unsuccessfully trying to smooth the unruly mess of blond, Maire lifted her camera, deftly centering the image.

"You take a couple of pictures with Mommy, okay?"

The disposable's flash and Sasha's giggle answered her and Maire smiled down at her daughter. Sometimes, when Sasha looked up at her just so, Maire swore that she could see Martin beside his sister, smiling an identical smile.

Her masterpieces.

The shot was ideal and so was the lighting; the moon was fat and flawlessly white, casting a shimmering reflection over the fathomless depths of water. This was going to be a picture worthy of a frame, she was certain.

Already making plans for mats and frames, Maire let the camera hang around her neck and reached out for Sasha.

And found nothing.

Instantly her heart picked up it's pace, pounding harder against her ribs as she glanced around looking for the chubby silhouette that would identify her daughter.

"Baby?" she called. "Sasha?"

From several feet down the bridge there was the flash of a camera and an unmistakable giggle.

"Sasha!" Maire called again, heading toward where she had seen the flash.

Sasha was there, halfway back down the bridge, happily waving her camera and Maire breathed a sigh of relief, feeling her stomach work its way back up from her shoes and wondered if she was the single worst mother in the world for letting her daughter wander off alone in the dark.

"Mah!" Sasha squealed, snapping another picture.

"Come on, Baby." Maire said, extending her hand. "Time to go home."

"Omh?" Sasha inquired, raising the camera again.

The disposable flashed and Maire gasped as it illuminated a group of men several feet away on the bridge. There were at least four of them, all gathered around a fifth who was on his knees.

" _y vertiendo con almas estará siempre. In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti." _

Their words were carried on the wind, meaningless yet full of significance. Another flash from Sasha's camera accompanied a sound that was not unlike a champagne bottle being uncorked and all the men turned as one to look at her.

All except for the fifth man, who was now lying in a pool of gore at the feet of the others.

"Hey!" one of the men shouted, reaching into his jacket.

"Oh my God." The words came out in a rush of fear and adrenaline as she swept Sasha into her arms, running away from the grisly scene as fast as she could.

_Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god . . . _

She heard another champagne bottle pop and felt the wind of something whizzing past her ear.

They were shooting at her. Oh dear God, they were shooting at her and the baby.

Another gallon of adrenaline dumped itself into her veins and she crushed Sasha to her chest, shielding her daughter with her own body as best she could, and redoubling her pace.

They were right behind her and another bullet went speeding by. Maire knew she should be screaming for help, but all of her oxygen was focused solely on keeping her upright and moving. She couldn't stop running; if she stopped, they would kill her just like they had killed that man. They would kill her and then they would kill her daughter.

o()o

_Thanks Again to all of you out there in PCLand._

_Love,_

_GoddessLaughs_


End file.
